


grow something wild and unruly

by dalmatienne



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Even More Horses, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, animal birth, period typical internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 22:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16504241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalmatienne/pseuds/dalmatienne
Summary: “Well I heard,” Gabe says, his accent still that peculiar mix of Great Plains and something else. “I heard that there’s gonna be a big rodeo festival up in Cheyenne. The Daddy of ‘Em All.  You want to head on up with me?”Tyson pretends to think about it. Truth be told, Tyson’d say yes to most anything Gabe’d ask of him. But that sort of power is a dangerous thing to just hand over to any one man, so Tyson hems and haws for a few minutes, shifting the cards around in his hand. He takes a sip of his blackberry whiskey and throws his cards down.  "I fold, I'm in."





	grow something wild and unruly

**Author's Note:**

> If you recognize your name in this story, please, for the love of all things holy and good, click away now. This is entirely a work of fiction.
> 
> As always, a huge shout out to #AvsFam for cheerleading, answering dumb questions, and putting up with my insistence on ignoring canon. I would be nowhere without my betas [Elle_belle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_belle) and [Mythisea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythisea), who helped me make this dumb idea into an actual story with a real plot and who waded through page after page after page of weird dialects and grammar. Speaking of wading through weird dialects and grammar, a standing ovation goes to [Talahui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talahui) for her amazing reading! It's beautiful and dynamic and everyone should listen to it!!!
> 
> Some housekeeping:
> 
> 1\. I'm a recovering history major, so I had a lot of fun writing and researching this. However, my specialization was in the Cold War Era, not the American West, so some (a lot) of liberties were taken. I mostly pulled my information from ["Homos on the Range: How gay was the West?"](https://truewestmagazine.com/old-west-homosexuality-homos-on-the-range/) by Jana Bommersbach, ["Get 'Em Out Alive"](https://www.beefmagazine.com/mag/beef_em_alive) by Heather Smith Thomas, the Wyoming Newspapers Digital Archives Project, and _Let's Go! Let's Show! Let's Rodeo! The History of the Cheyenne Frontier Days_ by Shirley E. Flynn. If anything is wrong or anachronistic, uh, my bad.
> 
> 2\. Regarding the Animal Birth tag, if you're not about that, just skip the section in parentheses between where Tyson agrees to go to Cheyenne and "Abilene, Kansas, was the end of the road." It's not super graphic and there are no deaths but I can see how it might be off-putting. Regarding the Period Typical Internalized Homophobia tag, the tag says it all. The main character experiences distress and shame because of his sexuality. However, no one else in the story displays emotional, verbal, or physical homophobia. It's all in his head, because I decided to make this story Soft.
> 
> 3\. Title from "Cowboy Take Me Away" by the Dixie Chicks. Naturally.
> 
> 4\. All opinions regarding the states of Kansas, Nebraska, Texas, and Wyoming are my own and do not reflect those of the people these characters are based on.

 

Some days, Tyson misses the ocean so bad his body _aches_. The briny smell of salt and seaweed in the air, the rushing sound of waves crashing on the rocky shore. The creaking of ships in the port, the hollers of the men on the docks, each new language weaving itself into the ebb and flow of voices. 

The crackle of the fire in the hearth, his ma’s fish stew simmering and filling the house like it filled their stomachs.

His ma and pa. His sister.

A decade ago, Tyson’d’ve sworn up and down that salt water flowed through his veins instead of blood. Take him too far away from the ocean, ‘n he’d dry up like a fish out of water.

On those days when he misses the Pacific like he’d miss a limb, Tyson takes a long moment to stand in his stirrups and stare out at the prairie grass. He watches it wave in the winds blowing through the territories. He watches the eddies, the choppy currents passing through the green-gold expanses. He watches the blades lap against the legs of his horse and the flanks of the cattle.

How did that one school teacher put it in that song of hers? Amber waves of grain?

Tyson looks across the tides of prairie grass and knows he’s just traded one type of ocean for another. The ache eases.

* * *

Greeley, Colorado, is the closest thing Tyson has to a home base. Closest thing he wants, too, come to think of it. It ain’t too big, but it’s big enough and the postmaster friendly enough to set aside any mail addressed to, “Mr. Tyson Barrie, The Range, Colorado, United States of America.” There’s a train depot and a handful of good saloons. Two fancy hotels Tyson knows he’d never be able to afford a stay in and an opry theater he also cain’t afford to visit, but that don’t stop him from sneaking into shows anyway. Ever since the Potato Days festival a few years back, the town’s been a little big for its britches, but Tyson cain’t fault the locals for that. The fare’d been mighty tasty.

Most days, the skies are blue, the clouds are white, and the mountains rising along the western horizon are a glorious shade of purple.

‘Course, he don’t often spend his time in Greeley admiring the view outside.

The Avalanche ain’t the most popular saloon in town: it’s small, on the opposite side of town from the train depot, and there’s a menagerie of badly taxidermied animal heads on the wall. Tyson’s particular favorite, aside from the jackrabbit with antelope horns, is a lopsided buffalo head with a toothy grin, an outstretched tongue, and one horn pointing up and the other pointing down. Regardless of the weather, of the day, or of the number of coins in his pockets, that buffalo head always draws out a smile on Tyson’s face.

Once his pals knew that piece of information, they had refused to sit anywhere in the saloon other ‘n at the table directly beneath the buffalo head.

They’d also named it Tyson the Bison.

Tyson loves his pals, but more often ‘n not, he wants to strangle them with their own neckerchiefs.

“You’re taking your damn sweet time with those drinks,” Tyson hollers over the jaunty piano music. There’s a piano in the corner, the young man sat there playing the new music from out east. It’s good, somethin’ to tap his foot to, but Tyson ain’t sure it’ll hold up.

“Hold your horses, it’s comin’!”

A tall man in a vest trimmed with rabbit fur carefully makes his way across the dusty floor, avoiding the rickety tables half-full of other regulars. Four cloudy glasses are balanced in his hands, and he takes great care not to spill any of them as he takes a seat to Tyson’s left. He sends a grin Tyson’s way and offers him a glass.

“Holdin’ horses is my job,” the tall blond man on Tyson’s other side says, and plucks a glass out of Mack’s hands without waiting.

Tyson groans. He stretches across the table to knock the man’s hat off. “Get outta here, EJ, no one invited you.” EJ dodges and flashes a gap-toothed smiled Tyson’s way.

“EJ ain’t need an invitation, he runs free like a mustang,” another blond man says and drops into the lone empty chair across from Tyson. His hair is windswept and his blue eyes sparkle like a campfire in the dim light of the saloon.

Tyson has long since accepted the fact that he runs with an awful lot of tall, good-lookin’, blond cowboys.

“He’s got the social graces of one, that’s for sure,” Tyson says.

“The horse is God’s gift to mankind,” EJ says, all high and mighty, like he’s some preacher spreading the word of God, and drains half his glass. He pulls out a well-worn deck of cards and starts to shuffle them. “What’re we playing for tonight, boys?”

* * *

Tyson don’t normally spend more ‘n a few weeks at a time up in Greeley, and sure enough, not ten days after checking into his usual boarding house, he catches word of a cattle drive in need of cowboys down in Texas headed to Abilene. Of the Greeley gang, he’s the only one to accept the job. EJ heads on back to his horse ranch, unwilling to leave it in the hands of his young apprentices any longer ‘n he has to, and Gabe is obliged to return to Denver for a period of weeks on account of family business.

Even Mack, who’s been doin’ drives and round-ups with him since they’d met a few years back, begs off the drive entirely, based on the unfounded and unfair claim that Tyson’ll complain the whole way through Texas. It ain’t Tyson’s fault the entire state is awful.

Of all the states in the country that Tyson’s rode through, Texas is far and away his least favorite. It’s hot and all desert. Least, the parts he’s been through were all desert and sagebrush.

(“Did you have your eyes closed for two weeks? There were plains and forests, same as the rest of the Trail,” Mack’d said on one of the many occasions Tyson’d had to lament the worst state in America.

“Sand dunes and cracked earth, far as the eye could see,” Tyson’d assured him, tipping back a shot of whiskey to wash the taste of Texas dust from his mouth. The whiskey was bad on its own without his usual sweet blackberry liqueur, but near anything was better ‘n the memory of Texas.

“I was there with you, jackass, and I can tell you it’s more ‘n just desert!”)

The worst part about Texas, Tyson thinks, is that it feels inevitable. The Range was closing up in northern plains states, what with the private investors buyin’ up the land and puttin’ up their doggone barbed wire. Endless plains and prairies packaged up into neat packages for the highest bidder. Wildflowers, bluebells and purple clover and yellow asters, dug up for fences that rotted and rusted in a few years. Each acre of land eaten up by the barbed wire pushed Tyson and other folk like him further ‘n further south, into Texas’s dusty, dry, waiting arms.

Tyson ain’t the sort to hold grudges against men he’s never met, but it’s hard not to hate someone tryin’ to take away the only freedom he’s ever known.

Much as Tyson wants to ignore the harder truths of life, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that if he wants to keep what he has on the Range, he’s gonna have to move down south to Texas. He don’t want that. There ain’t near enough snow for him, and it’s even further away from his family, just in case he ever wanted to go back for a visit.

‘Sides, more often ‘n not, he finds his heart tugging him right on back to Greeley and the friends he can find there.

* * *

Abilene, Kansas, is fine enough, for a cattle town. It’s got the usual: a saloon or three, a bank, a chapel. A train station that takes up most of the town. Dust. Loud vaqueros and the long suffering town folk. It’s fine, but Tyson ain’t sayin’ he’d miss it if he never came back.

After loading the cattle on the waiting stockcars and boarding his horse in the public stable, Tyson stops by a barber shop near the depot. Him and the other cowboys, they’d bathed and shaved along the trail when they could, but none of that could hold a candle to treating himself to a real barber. His curls are messy as ever, hanging lank and dusty after a summer spent driving cattle, and his cheeks’re rough and dark with uneven stubble. Tyson’s missed recognizing the man staring back at him in mirrors.

That, and he’s eager to get caught up on news and to talk to someone other than cattle and the other boys he’d been traveling with.

Cattle’re great at keeping secrets, but they sure are lousy conversationalists.

“Howdy,” the barber says when Tyson enters the shop. He’s big, taller ‘n Tyson even with the boost Tyson gets from his boots. With his black moustache, thick forearms, and crooked nose that suggested a history of fisticuffs, the man looks more like a bruiser or horse thief ‘n a barber. The man eyes Tyson up, raising dark eyebrows at the thick layer of dust covering darn near every inch of his body. “You here for a cut and a shave?”

“I am.” Tyson tugs off his hat, hangs it on the hook by the door. He stamps his feet a bit, trying to get the worst o’ the dirt off. He sticks his hand out to the barber. “Tyson Barrie.”

“Paul Bissonnette,” the barber says and gives Tyson’s hand a firm shake. “Though most folks round here call me Biz. They call me a few other things, but Biz is most fit for polite company. Not that you’re polite company,” he adds with a smirk before turning back for his comb and scissors.

“You’re mighty rude for a barber.”

“And you’re mighty short for a cowboy.” Biz kicks at a chair facing a large, undecorated silver mirror. “Sit down and take a load off, Mr. Barrie. I’m the only barber in Abilene so you’re shit out of luck if I don’t meet your high expectations.”

Tyson’s caught between offense and amusement, so he shrugs and takes a seat. Biz settles a sheet ‘round his shoulders, and gets to work on the sweat-matted curls. Tyson leans back in the chair and closes his eyes. He figures if Biz takes too much off the top, well, Tyson can just wear his hat indoors ‘til it grows back.

The snips and clicks of the scissors in the quiet of the small barbershop are soothing, and Tyson feels a weight lift from his shoulders each time a lock of hair falls onto the sheet. He knows his hair wasn’t that shaggy, even after three months on horseback, but there’s something about cleaning up after a long drive that puts a man at ease.

An untold time later, Biz cards a hand through his hair to shake loose the remaining snippings and check for symmetry. For all his bark, the man has no bite, Tyson thinks.

And then Biz snips his scissors precariously close to his ear, startling Tyson out of his daydreams.

Holding a hand to his ear, Tyson startles up to eyeball the new length of his left sideburn in the mirror.

“You seem to be cuttin’ it pretty short there.”

“Sure am,” Biz confirms, not easing up a lick as he starts in on the other side. “You look like the kind of fella to have the shortest sideburns on the Range.”

Tyson goes to turn in his seat, see if the barber is actually looking to start a fight in the shop, but big hands clamp down on his shoulders. “Simmer down, cowboy, they’ll grow back. Means you can go longer between barbershop visits too, since I’ve got the feeling you ain’t aimin’ to stay in Abilene long.”

“Like there’s much to stick around for in this town anyway,” Tyson grumbles.

Biz laughs. “I’ll have you know Abilene ain’t like those backwards nowhere towns you’ve been ridin’ through. We got plenty goin’ on here.”

As Biz starts in on giving Tyson a proper shave, he chatters away about the comings and goings of the town. He switches topics effortlessly, jumping from the poor acting in the most recent community theater performance to the projected grain harvest and the local scandals, never once letting up on the smooth motions of the razer. The man gives the impression of someone who’ll talk whether or not anyone’ll listen, so Tyson don’t feel too bad for letting his mind drift.

Tyson tunes back in as Biz wipes the last flecks of soap from Tyson’s neck.

“The tail end of cattle drive season always sends the whole town into a tizzy, like they ain’t never seen a bunch of dirty cows and men before. Though I’ll tell you what, just last week a small drive came in and hoo-boy, all the ladies in the town went crazy over one of the cowboys. So pretty, even the preacher’s wife was talkin’ ‘bout him: all tall, golden-haired, and blue-eyed, puttin’ the rest of us to shame.”

“He really that good lookin’?” Tyson asks as a flush colors his freshly shaven cheeks.

Biz snorts and removes the sheet from Tyson’s shoulders, flinging the dark cuttings to the floor.

“Good lookin’? They boy’s got the face of an angel, with the name of one to boot.” At Tyson’s blank look, Biz sighs and gestures for Tyson to stand. “You as dumb as you are short? The kid’s name’s Gabriel, like the Archangel.”

“You keep insultin’ me like you don’t want to get paid,” Tyson says, a little breathlessly. Tall, blond, good lookin’ cowboys ain’t hard to come by, Tyson’d know—they’re all he seems to associate with. But more ‘n one tall, blond, good lookin’ cowboy named Gabriel? The Range ain’t that big. Tyson’s chest squeezes painfully, like someone was practicing their roping with Tyson’s lungs and heart. He coughs a few times to dislodge the feeling. “This cowboy, he still in town?”

Biz gives him a look and Tyson glances away, digging through his pockets to pay Biz for his services. The man was mouthy, but he did a damn fine job with a straight razor.

“Last I heard, he is. Look for a crowd of dolled up biddies, and you’ll find him. Thank you kindly for your business,” he says as he takes Tyson’s proffered money. Tyson grabs his hat off the hook, tips it to Biz, and sees himself out of the shop.

He ain’t got to wander Abilene long before he spots a crowd of well made up women and girls gathered near the stable yard of the same public stables Tyson’d hitched his girl. As he gets closer to the crowd, he notes that while the women are talking amongst themselves, their clear object of interest is the man reshoeing his horse near the center of the yard. The young man’s hat is pulled low, shading his face from the early September sun, but Tyson can pick those shoulders and forearms out of a crowd of a hundred cowboys.

“They let just about anyone into Abilene these days, don’t they, Landeskog?” Tyson calls across the yard, grinning as the young man’s head pops up at the sound of his name. His eyes, bright and blue as the Colorado sky even at this distance, lock on Tyson and a grin splits his face. The girls next to Tyson titter in excitement as Gabe stands up from his crouch to swagger, hands in his pockets, towards Tyson.

“Well if it ain’t Tyson Barrie,” Gabe says. He leans against one of the fence posts and Tyson can track the play of his forearm muscles under his rolled up shirt sleeves. “I almost didn’t recognize you under all that dirt. You too eager to see me again to stop for a bath?”

“Oh get off your high horse, Gabe, I ain’t miss you that much,” Tyson says, but he knows his smile’s gone too soft to be mean.

They haven’t seen each other in three months. It’s not the longest time Tyson’s gone without seeing one of his boys, but it sure is nice to see a friendly face. Gabe looks good, more like one of the lumberjacks in the forests back in Victoria than a skinny post-drive vaquero. The sun’s treated him fairly, turning his skin golden bronze instead of ruddy or burnt. No wonder the girls in town have been going crazy.

So yeah, Tyson might’ve missed him that much.

“Quit it, you’re breakin’ my heart here,” Gabe laughs. He throws a look over his shoulder at his horse, who’s looking back at them patiently. “I gotta get back to my fella over there, but how about we get drinks in an hour? Gives you enough time to take that bath.”

Tyson rolls his eyes. “You think you’re so clever. The saloon by the boarding house sound good? That one by the train depot?”

With another flash of his white smile, Gabe nods. “I’ll see you later, Tys. Ladies,” he adds, tipping his hat to the small herd of women gathered in their periphery. The all giggle amongst themselves and Tyson don’t even try to hold back the smile on his face as he watches Gabe walk back to his horse. When Gabe bends down to retrieve his discarded tools, Tyson turns and makes his way to the boarding house.

True to their word, they meet up about a hour later, just as the sun touches the horizon and turns the sky a blushing pink. Tyson’s clean after his first real bath all summer, and with his newly smooth chin and cleanest shirt on, he feels like a brand new person. 

They embrace shortly, a quick hug with a couple pats to the back, before ambling into the saloon. Gabe even does the courtesy of ordering their first round of drinks: a neat whiskey for himself and whiskey with blackberry liqueur for Tyson. Tyson’d be impressed that Gabe remembers his drink, only Gabe and EJ’d roasted him each and every time he’d order it back at the Avalanche. More ‘n anything, Tyson pities the two of them for pretending to enjoy the burn of plain whiskey without something sweet to soften it.

There’s a table in the back of the saloon that’s open, and they gladly take it. It’s a touch odd, sittin’ on his own with Gabe in a saloon that ain’t got Tyson the Bison on the wall, but it’s still good. Still friendly and familiar. Gabe pulls out a deck of raggedy cards and deals them each a hand, but neither of them bother bettin’ anything. Loser buys next round of drinks, same as always.

A few turns into their hand, they ease in to catching up. Two hands and the drinks to match, Gabe gives Tyson a speculative look.

“You got any plans now?” he asks, and draws a card. 

Tyson admits that he don’t, and that he might wander ‘round Kansas looking for farms in need of a ranch hand, or head back on up to Greeley to see how EJ was faring. “Maybe Mack’s back from visiting that pal of his stationed up in Montana.”

“Well I heard,” Gabe says, his accent still that peculiar mix of Great Plains and something else. “I heard that there’s gonna be a big rodeo festival. The Daddy of ‘Em All.”

“A rodeo festival huh? Where is it?”

“Cheyenne, up in Wyoming.” 

Tyson makes a face. He’s spent enough time tied to Greeley and by association Denver to have an inherent dislike of Cheyenne. Railroad politics ran deep between towns in the West. 

Gabe laughs at him. “I know, I know, Cheyenne ain’t a first pick for either of us. But there’s gonna be pony races, bronco bustin’, and steer roping. A big cowboy round up, could be our chance to show what we’ve got.”

“There gonna be prizes?” Tyson asks. He ain’t too good at bronco bustin’, but he knows how to rope up steers real quick. Recognition as the best steer roper on the Range could go a long way to gettin’ him more jobs, and any amount of prize money wouldn’t be unwelcome.

“‘Course. You want to head on up with me?”

Tyson pretends to think about it. Truth be told, Tyson’d say yes to most anything Gabe’d ask of him. But that sort of power is a dangerous thing to just hand over to any one man, so Tyson hems and haws for a few minutes, shifting the cards around in his hand. He takes a sip of his blackberry whiskey and throws his cards down.

“I fold. I’ll go to this roundup with you, Landy, even if it is in that god forsaken hellhole they call Cheyenne. What date’s the festival set for?”

Gabe’s grin is more sincere and beautiful and white than any cowboy has any right to have. It shakes Tyson to his core no matter how many times he’s seen it. 

“September 23, I reckon. I figure we leave in the next few days, we can set a leisurely pace, meander a bit. Unless you want to stick around Abilene a bit longer?” Gabe raises his eyebrows and gives the sleepy, dimly lit saloon around them a dramatic look-about.

Tyson throws his drink back. “Hell no. I don’t stay in Kansas any longer ‘n I have to.”

The grin on Gabe’s face softens to something even softer and more private. Like it might be something just for Tyson. The invisible lasso ‘round Tyson’s chest squeezes tighter. “I know.”

* * *

(Tyson’d been elbows deep in a calving cow the first time he’d met Gabe. Funny enough, it’d also been the first time he’d gone elbows deep in a calving cow.

He’d been somewhere between nineteen and twenty, still trying to find his place on the Range three years after leaving Victoria on a train. He’d hopped around here and there, taking farmhand jobs where he could find them and then moving on to the next outfit. Sheep made up the majority of the livestock he tended in southern parts of Wyoming and northern parts of Colorado, but on Tyson’s few meanderings down through Nebraska and Kansas, he got to work with fields of wheat and corn. It’d been hot, sweaty, back-breaking work, and he’d sorely missed working with animals. After a few turns in the golden fields of Kansas, Tyson’d hitched a train ride back up to the purple mountains of Colorado, where he’d lucked out and found work with the Landeskog family.

The ranch wasn’t sprawling, but it was comfortable. It was nestled in a green little valley halfway between Denver and Greeley that managed to stay beautiful year round. There were a few dairy cows, a herd of beef cattle, some chickens. A few goats including his best gal, Greta. The majority of the land and resources were dedicated to the Arabian stallions and mares of breeding stock Mr. Landeskog had been gifted by his employers. The horse breeding business paid for the ranch, but Mr. Landeskog’s employment in Denver kept his family comfortable.

Tyson’s stint at the Landeskog family ranch was the longest he’d ever stayed in one place since leaving home. He’d been hired to assist the ranch manager, a big cowboy nearly a decade Tyson’s senior named Ryan O’Byrne. Though he’d only been hired to assist with the seasonal work of maintaining the ranch leading into the snowy winter months while the Landeskogs stayed in town, his employers had extended his employment indefinitely after O’Byrne’d got his arm broken following the brief escape of the lone bull of the ranch. As capable and experienced as O’Byrne was, the ranch needed more help ‘n one cowboy with a busted arm during calving season.

It’d just finished snowing when O’Byrne’d pulled Tyson away from where he was mucking out the horse stables, the weak Colorado sun peeking out from behind the clouds. Snow out on the plains was beautiful, but snow on the ranch was just doggone inconvenient. Made everything cold and muddy, and most of the animals were none too happy about it neither.

“One of the dairy cows is calving,” O’Byrne’d grumbled as they’d squelched through the mud to the cowshed. “She’s been in early labor a while, but it ain’t movin’ on as it should. May be breech. If’n we can catch it early we can save the mama and the baby, but I ain’t no use with my arm busted.” O’Byrne’d gestured at his arm, done up in a sling and hidden beneath his sheepskin jacket.

They’d ducked into the cowshed, lit only by pale February daylight near the entrance and a few lanterns in the back. The inside of the shed had been dim and musky, but once Tyson’s eyes’d adjusted to the light, he could see the cow in a roped off section. She’d been restless, her rust red sides heaving as she paced the small area allowed to her.

“Don’t just stand there gawpin’, greenhorn, come on over and help.”

Tyson’d scrambled through the mud and straw to stand by O’Byrne and the cow. “How’m I gonna help?” he’d asked, staring wide eyed at the cow. Tyson loved the dairy cows on the Landeskog ranch, with their big soft eyes and fuzzy black noses, but he wasn’t too sure how he’d be much help.

The older cowboy’d scratched at his dark stubble and eyed up Tyson.

“You’re gonna check to see if the calf is breech,” O’Byrne had said at last. He’d dug into his pocket with his good hand and pulled out a plug of chewing tobacco. “If’n he is breech, you’re gonna have to get ‘em into position. Then you’re gonna pull.”

“I’m gonna…”

“Pull the calf, yep.” O’Byrne’d tucked the plug in between his gum and lower lip. He’d caught sight of Tyson’s face, gone white as a battleground ghost, and chuckled. “Don’t look too scared. I’ll walk you through it, greenhorn.”

After removing their sheepskin jackets and instructing Tyson to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, O’Byrne’d slathered something slick over Tyson’s hands and forearms. Tyson’d taken a deep breath, trying hard not imagine what the next step would be. O’Byrne’d guided the cow into a narrow closed off stall and then guided Tyson right behind her. Tyson’d peered into the unknown that was before him and shot one more look of terror at O’Byrne.

“Don’t worry about her kickin’ ya, she’s a sweetheart and this ain’t her first go round,” the older cowboy’d said, rubbing a hand along the cow’s swollen sides. She’d mooed in response, angling her wide rectangular head back to look at them. O’Byrne’d pointed toward her backside and said, “Now I need you to stick your hand in, just there, and tell me what you feel.”

Tyson’d done just that, patting the poor cow’s rump in apology. Just as O’Byrne’d promised, the cow’d stamped her hooves and huffed, but didn’t kick. Tyson was mighty appreciative of that.

After Tyson’d described what he felt, to the best of his abilities, O’Byrne’d told him to pull out. Tyson’d avoided looking at his hand when he did so.

“Poor girl’s calf is breech, that’s for sure,” O’Byrne’d sighed. He’d tilted his hat back and spat into some dirtied hay near the cowshed entrance. “Hope ya had a hearty breakfast, greenhorn, you’re gonna need your strength for this.”

Moments later, Tyson’d been elbows deep in the cow, trying to get the calf’s slippery legs into position and whispering praise to the cow, when there’d been a noise at the entrance of the cowshed. Tyson’d looked away from where his arms disappeared into the cow and caught sight of the most beautiful boy on either side of the Rockies. The boy was tall, about a year or so younger ‘n Tyson himself, and his blond hair glinted in the February sun, as golden as ripe Nebraska wheat. Even in his winter clothes, he’d cut a mighty fine figure in the entrance of the cowshed, broad in shoulder and long of leg. He’d led one of the Landeskog stallions behind him, its white coat shimmering like fresh snow despite the mud around of the ranch.

They’d made a pretty pair, horse and boy. A couple of real studs.

Tyson’d bit his lip and looked away real quick. He didn’t...he wasn’t thinking about the boy like _that_. Tyson’d suddenly been aware of how flushed and sweaty he was, how his arms were still stuck up in the poor cow. 

“How’s Anni-Frid doing?” the boy’d asked, peering into the dark of the cowshed. He’d had a peculiar accent, like Mr. Landeskog, but not as thick. Tyson’d thought this might be his son, back from the family home in Denver.

O’Byrne’d grunted, spat again. “Reckon she and the calf’ll pull through. What’re you doin’ back on the ranch this early, boy? I thought you weren’t due back ‘til later this spring.”

“Da and Mr. Kerfoot found a horse trainer out in St. Louis they decided to hire, to help with a new horse they’re lookin’ to buy. Word has it the fella’s a real horse whisperer. Da wants me to meet him out here, get the other horses ready. Say, you need any help out here?”

“Nah, I got the greenhorn here to help for now.” O’Byrne’d turned back to Tyson. “You got him positioned?”

“I got one leg, just need to get the other,” Tyson’d said, darting his eyes back up to the boy before focusing on the cow. Anni-Frid, that’d been what the boy called her. A pretty name for a pretty girl.

He’d had one hand pulling the leg as the other cupped the hoof, angling the leg over Anni-Frid’s pelvis. After some struggle, the calf’d finally been in place. Anni-Frid’d grunted and began to strain. Tyson had felt her muscles moving around his arm, and he’d shot another wide eyed look at O’Byrne. The older cowboy’d told him to ease up, to let Anni-Frid do her part. Tyson’d stood there wide eyed and panting; he’d accepted a clean enough bandana from O’Byrne, wiping off his sweaty brow before clearing the worst off his hands. The blond boy had already left, leading the horse away while Tyson’d been assisting the calving.

As Anni-Frid’d strained, Tyson could see the hooves and legs of the calf appear. After some time, O’Byrne’d gestured at the half-visible calf.

“See how the calf’s hips are free of his mama? Means we can start pullin’, don’t have to worry about hurting his ribs. I’ll call Gabe in to help you. Looks like we got us a big fella here, and I ain’t gonna be any help.”

O’Byrne’d stuck his head out of the cowshed and hollered for the blond boy. Gabe, Tyson’d thought. His name was Gabe.

Sure enough, no sooner ‘n O’Byrne’d called his name, Gabe’d came loping over from the horse stable like a cattle dog called for dinner. He’d grinned and knocked his shoulder against Tyson’s, settling in next to him behind the cow.

“This your first pullin’?” Gabe’d asked, that strange Landeskog accent mixing with the Great Plains drawl Tyson was accustomed to. Tyson’d nodded, looking back to Anni-Frid to stop from staring too much at Gabe. “Me too. O’Byrne here used to handle all the birthin’, but I guess he needs some assistance in his old age.”

“Don’t mock the injured, Gabe. And show some respect to your elders,” O’Byrne’d added as an afterthought. “Now, you two’re gonna do just as I say. Pull when I say pull, ease up when I tell you. We don’t want to put this girl through any more than she needs to be.”

Tyson’d taken hold of one leg, and Gabe the other. He’d been afraid of hurting the calf, but O’Byrne’d been doing this for years before Tyson’d even come out to the Range. They’d followed the older cowboy’s directions, heaving and grunting to pull the baby free. Finally, after what could have been minutes or hours, the calf’d slipped free of Anni-Frid. Even wet with the newness of its birth, the calf had beenmighty cute. Tyson’d near forgot to breathe as he’d watched its thick dark eyelashes flutter open for the first time.

O’Byrne’d taken over, dropping to his knees to make sure the calf was healthy and breathing. He’d instructed Tyson to lead Anni-Frid back to roped off area of the cowshed, and then to carry the newborn calf to her. After watching mama and baby interact for a time, O’Byrne’d shooed them out, Tyson to finish mucking out the horse stables and feeding the goats, Gabe to prepare for the new horse trainer up from St. Louis.

On their way out of the cowshed, Gabe’d turned to Tyson and gave him a wide bright smile. “I don’t think I caught your name, unless you have the great misfortune to be named Green Horn.”

Tyson’d laughed, caught off guard by the casual way Gabe spoke to him. “Nah, I go by Barrie. Tyson Barrie. I’d shake your hand, but my hand’s just been up a cow.”

“Gabriel Landeskog, Gabe to my friends,” Gabe’d replied, his blue eyes matching the now clear blue sky. “And I’d shake your hand as well, but I’ve just assisted a calf pulling. It was mighty fine meeting you, Tyson,” Gabe’d said, waving a bit as he headed up to the ranch house.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Tyson’d muttered, left sweaty and flushing in the middle of the muddy ranch.

They’d run into each other a hand full of times after that on the Landeskog ranch. The ranch’d been fortunate enough to not have any more breech calves, but Tyson still saw Gabe while going about his chores. Towards the end of February, the new horse trainer’d arrived at the ranch. Tyson’d see Gabe and another tall blond fellow inspecting and training a horse new to the ranch. Both were good with the horse, but she’d seemed to take a real shining to Gabe in particular, who was firm but gentle with her, and who would sneak her sweets.

His time at the Landeskog ranch came to an end when O’Byrne was declared healthy as a horse by the doctor up from Denver. Mr. Landeskog’d given him his final pay, and O’Byrne’d given him a rough hug and a name to look up in Greeley for work. As Tyson’d hit the road up to Greeley, Gabe’d called to him from the paddock where he’d been saddle training the new horse.

“See you ‘round, Tyson.”

He’d made it sound like a promise.)

* * *

Abilene, Kansas, was the end of the road, so to speak, of the Chisholm Trail, ‘n there wasn’t a straightforward road or trail to Cheyenne. After some hours of debate and more whiskey in the days leading up to their departure, they decide on following the Kansas Pacific railroad before turning on to the Western Trail to Ogallala in Nebraska and then on to Cheyenne.

They ride out just as the sun rises two days later. Their saddle bags are full with canteens, dried meat, and extra ammo, for hunting. Tyson has a length of good, strong rope secured to his saddle. Along with their bedrolls, Tyson’s got their canvas tent hitched behind his saddle while Gabe totes the large square of waxed canvas to use as a makeshift lean-to for the horses.

Tyson’d’ve liked to let his girl rest up a bit more after the drive, but he knows Queenie’s as eager to get out of Abilene as he is. 

The horses whinny at each other when they meet up on the dusty Main Street of Abilene, like good friends reuniting after a piece spent apart. Gabe and Tyson hadn’t been on many cattle drives together—Gabe favored the wild horse roundups—but their horses knew each other from long months spent on EJ’s ranch. Queenie got along well enough with Gabe’s Benny, a palomino gelding half a hand taller ‘n her.

“Hope y’ain’t still sore after the drive,” Gabe says, and out of anyone else’s mouth it’d sound genuinely concerned. But Tyson knows Gabe, and more importantly, Tyson can see the grin spreading across Gabe’s mouth like butter on hot toast.

“That’s mighty kind of you, Gabriel, and I thank you for your concern,” Tyson says primly as he settles his boots in the stirrups. “I meant to ask earlier, that a new hat? Finally outgrow the old one?”

“Oh, shut your trap, Tys.” Gabe urges his horse ahead of Tyson on the road, still smiling.

They let the horses set their own pace, plodding along the prairie grasses and late blooming sunflowers and purple starflowers. Outside of the limits of Abilene, in between the farms and fields, the prairie comes alive with wildlife. Butterflies float serenely from blossom to blossom on the Kansas breeze and meadowlarks call to each other from the low thickets a stone’s throw from the trail. Two prairie dog pups scuttle across the path just in front of them, tusslin’ and playin’, before yelping and diving out of the way of the horses’ hooves. Tyson laughs and turns in his saddle to watch them disappear into the tall grasses.

“You’re in a good mood,” Gabe comments, and Tyson turns forward to shoot a grin at his traveling partner.

“‘Course I am, we’re leavin’ Kansas.”

“For the amount of prejudice you show for the state, you keep comin’ back. Any burnin’ reason why?”

Tyson shrugs. “I go where the jobs take me. ‘Sides, Kansas still ain’t as bad as Texas. Least they still get snow here. Speakin’ of jobs,” Tyson adds, “what brought you to Abilene? I thought you were tendin’ to family business in Denver.”

“I was. I finished up early, more or less. I joined one of the smaller drives out of western Kansas and ended up in Abilene.”

The response is stiff and stilted. When Tyson peers over, Gabe is sitting straight up in the saddle, reins gripped in his hands, staring straight ahead. Tyson can read him well enough to see that family ain’t something Gabe wants to talk about. That’s fine. Tyson can fill the silence ‘til Gabe feels like talking again.

“Well, you ain’t missin’ much by staying out of the Texas drives. Just dust and tumbleweeds, same as always. Then when we stopped in the towns along the trail, the food wasn’t near as good as Texas food is always talked up to be. Though I will say,” Tyson says and pauses long enough for Gabe to look back at him with a raised eyebrow. “The cows on this drive’re probably the sweetest cows I’ve ever had the pleasure to herd.”

That startles a disbelieving snort from Gabe. “Sweeter even than Anni-frid?”

Humming an affirmative, Tyson says, “Sweeter ‘n sugar. There was one special lady that followed me everywhere by the end of the drive. She was all white with black specks; it brought to mind white-out conditions up in the Rockies, so I called her Blizzard.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Gabe says even as a smile comes back to his face.

“I’m an artist,” Tyson corrects, “I’ve got poetry in my soul. Now are you gonna mock me, or are you gonna let me tell you about me and Blizzard’s secret affair?”

At Gabe’s sweeping gesture to continue, Tyson starts in on talking about Blizzard. She really had followed him around everywhere, plodding next to him on the trail, and grazing right by Queenie during rests. On long nights when it was his turn to keep watch, she’d lie down beside him with her fuzzy large head square in his lap, nudging at his hand ‘til he’d give in and pet her like the family dog.

Tyson’d cried after he’d helped herd her onto the stock car in Abilene.

That last part slips out without Tyson thinking about it and he clams up real quick, stares straight ahead without looking back at Gabe. He ain’t ashamed of the fact that he cried over sending a cow to the yards in Chicago. He just ain’t used to talking about something like this to anyone ‘sides Mack.

The horses amble on down the trail, the heavy silence between the two riders broken only by the calls of the meadowlarks. Just as the silence gets to be unbearable, Gabe reaches across the space between them to clap Tyson on the shoulder, letting his hand linger there for a piece.

“You’re softer ‘n my horse’s mouth,” he says once Tyson’s turned to look at him. There ain’t no bite to his words, and he even sounds a touch affectionate.

But Tyson’s already let this conversation get too emotional too fast for his tastes, so he nudges his horse just a few lengths ahead of Gabe. Gabe laughs at him.

Even in the cool morning weather, with the brim of his hat pulled low, Tyson feels his cheeks heat like he’d been roping steer in the July sun for hours.

They break around midday to water the horses at a thinner part of the Smoky Hill River and keep them fresh. Tyson washes the dust off his face and they share an end of bread and cured meat.

The rest of the day is spent exchanging tales from other cattle drives and horse roundups, steering clear of any conversation with emotional depth deeper ‘n a puddle. The horses take their own sweet time on the trail, and Tyson has to tug on Queenie’s reins a time or two to keep her from stopping to snack on the prairie grasses.

They make camp just as the sun is sinking towards the horizon, the horses snuffling and slowing their already leisurely pace. They’re not too far from Salina, but it’s been only a day: they don’t need any more supplies and they’d rather not use up any money on lodgings.

They lay their bedrolls out. It’s a clear, cool night, so no need for a tent or a fire through the night. They sleep beneath the wide open Kansas sky, blanketed by a sea of stars.

* * *

They continue on through the plains of Kansas, turning northwest towards Nebraska and Ogallala.

As the days pass, the nights get colder though the days stay mild. Their bedrolls migrate closer together, for the sake of maintaining heat without having to keep tending a fire. It’s what Tyson’s done on countless rides before, with Mack and other cowboys, but there’s something different about this time. With just the two of them and their horses, no herds of cattle or sheep, no other cowboys, the prairie and the sky above it seem infinitely wider but the space around them smaller.

It twists something in Tyson’s chest when he wakes up in the morning to Gabe’s sleeping face. His pale eyelashes glint in the soft dawn light and he looks his age, soft and young and at ease. Life on the Range ain’t easy, especially now that the Range’s closing up with barbed wire and railroads. To see Gabe without the hard look all cowboys wear nowadays was special. Intimate.

Tyson pushes himself out of his bedroll before he thinks on it too much. The horses need tending and breakfast needs to be made.

* * *

They’re staring up at the stars one night, all stretched out in the tall prairie grasses. Their fire died down a while ago, but Tyson is too comfortable to stoke it to life or roll out his bedroll. He runs his hands through the prairie grasses, the browning blades tickling at his palms. Tyson plucks a blade and sticks it between his thumbs. It takes a try or two, but he finally gets it to sing, whistling out in the night air already filled with cricket song.

Gabe pushes up on one elbow to look down at Tyson, a queer look on his face in the light of the stars and the near-full moon.

“I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,” Gabe says, melodic, like he’s quoting something.

“What?” Tyson asks, turning to look at Gabe. The moonlight washes him out, casting shadows over his face even as he leans closer to Tyson.

“Walt Whitman,” Gabe responds, like it makes a lick of sense to Tyson. It don’t, but Tyson keeps looking at Gabe for an explanation. Tyson’s silence seems to make Gabe nervous. Finally Gabe continues, “He’s an American poet from a few decades past.”

“Ah. Ma did most of our schooling, when we weren’t helping da out with the fishin’ or the chores. We read Shakespeare, and the Bible ‘course. No Whitman though.”

The nervous look on Gabe’s face drops to something Tyson can’t quite name, but looks an awful lot like disappointment or embarrassment.

“Oh. I thought...I thought you might’ve had the chance to read him out here.” He leans away from Tyson and drops back to his bedroll.

Tyson shrugs, a little bewildered. “Maybe I’ll pick up a book of his some day. Read more about his leaves of grass.” Gabe still looks put out, so Tyson adds, “Maybe you can show me your favorite poems of his.”

Gabe looks away but in the bright moonlight Tyson can aspy a small smile playing at his lips. “Maybe I will.”

* * *

Some two days out of Ogallala, Tyson wakes up early to a growling stomach and Gabe’s hair in his mouth. He rolls away, still more ‘n half asleep, and struggles to his feet, thumbing away the feeling of soft hair against his lips. He tugs on his boots one at a time, tugs on an outer shirt to keep out the damp cool of the early September morning, stretches ‘til his back cracks, and ambles on over to where they’d hitched the horses.

Queenie nickers at him as he approaches and tugs at her lead, shaking the scrawny tree she and Gabe’s horse are tied to. Benny flicks an ear in Tyson’s direction before swishing his tail and dozing off again.

Tyson brushes out Queenie’s coat again and rechecks her hooves for stones or loose nails. Would be a shame to throw a shoe so soon after getting her reshod in Abilene. He examines her mouth for any sores and runs his hands along where the bridle rests. She shakes her head and mouths at his fingers, prickly horse whiskers tickling at his palms. Tyson rubs at her nose and pushes her towards a fresh patch of grass before turning his attention to the saddle and tack. He shakes out the saddle blanket and oils up some of the leather to keep it supple enough. By Gabe’s estimate, they’re about a day and a half ride outside of Ogallala, one if they ride a little harder. After that, it’d take a week to get to Cheyenne, what with the steadily increasing elevation. Maybe less. It wouldn’t do to have any of his gear crack before they hit Cheyenne. He had the money for maintaining the gear, but not for replacing it.

Tyson finishes up and grabs the coffee and what’s left of a hare they’d caught the day before, heading over to rekindle the fire. Gabe’s up and has packed up their bedrolls, running a hand through his blond hair and shooting a sleepy smile Tyson’s way.

Without a word of good morning to Tyson, he fishes a slightly wrinkled apple out of one of the saddlebags and uses his knife to cut it in half. He makes his own way over to Benny and Queenie and gives each horse a half.

Benny eats his half placidly before bumping his nose against Gabe’s shoulder in thanks, but Queenie nips at Gabe’s fingers immediately after swallowing her apple near whole, clearly looking for more treats. Gabe laughs and looks at Tyson, fingers skittering across Queenie’s neck.

“So I see she’s got your sweet tooth,” he says and tangles his fingers in Queenie’s mane. “If’n she’d had her way, she’d get all the apples to herself and leave none for poor Benny.”

“She’s a growin’ girl, she deserves all the apples she can get,” Tyson argues. He abandons the fire and pot of coffee to stand next to Gabe by his horse. Queenie stretches her neck out to bump her nose against Tyson’s fingers, and he trails his palm up her cheek until he’s combing through her mane, same as Gabe.

Their fingers brush.

Tyson pulls away from Gabe’s hand before going back to the coffee, tryin’ to pay no mind to the way his fingertips tingle from that brief contact.

* * *

(Growin’ up in a logging and fishing community, even with its roots in prospectin’, Tyson hadn’t had any experience with horses prior to the Range. Donkeys he was familiar with in passing, mules a bit rarer, but horses?

Horses were a whole ‘nother deck of cards.

His first few cattle drives after hitchin’ a train outta Victoria, he’d had to borrow horses from his employer. Those horses, through no fault of their own, were tired old mares who’d seen more ‘n their fair share of drives. Old and bitter as they were, Tyson’d loved them all the same. He’d spend hours brushing out their manes and tails, trying to given them plaits like his sister’d taught him years ago. Even on the leanest drives, he’d managed to sneak away some bits of fruits or sweets just for his old girls. He’d suffered more bites and kicks from those horses ‘n he could keep track of, and he’d cried each and every time he’d had to return a horse.

But as much as he’d loved those horses, he’d never loved an animal like it was a member of his own family.

Least, not til he’d gotten a horse of his very own.

Tyson’d won his girl a few years back in a particularly fortuitous poker game, from two brothers out of Saskatchewan. The brothers’d ridden into Greeley just in time for the very first Potato Days and, bloated and sleepy from the heartiest potato dishes to be found in Colorado, had stumbled into the Avalanche. This’d been back before EJ’d gotten his horse ranch, when he and Gabe had still been working with the Arabians on the Landeskog ranch. It’d been just Tyson and Mack in the saloon that day, Mack still new to the Range.

It’d been pure luck that the brothers’d sat next to Tyson and Mack, who’d been playing a few friendly hands of poker. They’d gotten to talking, and Mack’d offered to deal them in when they revealed that they were from up north too. A few rounds, and more ‘n a few drinks in, they’d started placing wagers. Just as Tyson’d been ready to plead out, he’d gotten ahold of a mighty opportune hand, and kept raising his bets.

Neither of the Schenns, nor Mack, had seemed to take his bets seriously.

“I’d bet my horse you’re bluffin’,” the younger Schenn’d said and drained his whiskey glass.

“You willin’ to put your money where your mouth is?” Tyson’d shot back, sipping at his own blackberry whiskey.

“You willin’ to match it?”

Tyson’d chanced another peek at his cards and grinned at the Schenns. “Sure am. I bet Mack’s horse, tack and all.”

Mack’d made a panicked noise, but Tyson’d kicked at his foot under the table. When Mack’d met his eyes, Tyson’d winked, but that hadn’t seemed to calm Mack down any. Still, Mack’d stayed silent and let Tyson bet his horse.

“I’m playing with a bunch of goddamn idiots,” the older brother’d groaned. “I fold.”

A few tense moments later, the younger Schenn’d thrown his hand down, revealing a flush. He’d smirked at Tyson, all high and mighty and drunk, and gestured at him to do the same. Tyson’d sighed, given Mack a wide-eyed apologetic looked, and thown down his hand as well.

It’d been a royal straight flush, the only time in Tyson’s doggone life he’d ever had a hand that high.

Mack’d hollered, swept him to his feet, and danced him across the dusty floor of the Avalanche. “You bet my whole goddamned horse, you sonuvabitch,” Mack’d yelled in his ear. “I was fixin’ to kill you for that!”

“Now we ain’t gotta ride double to the next jobs,” Tyson’d shouted right back, grinning so hard his jaw popped.

The Schenn brothers, despite any previous affiliations, weren’t trying to attract attention from the law in Greeley, so rather ‘n fighting or drawing pistols, they’d grumbled and led Mack and Tyson out to where the horse was hitched. She was a beaut, about fifteen hands high, a pinto with big milky white splotches across a chocolate brown coat. Her white-tipped tail’d flicked lazily as he’d approached her, eying up her broadly muscled chest and hindquarters. Without EJ there to confirm, Tyson wasn’t too sure, but he’d thought she’d be a good rope horse.

“She got a name?” Mack’d asked the brothers while Tyson’d stroked her fuzzy nose and stared deeply into her earth-brown eyes.

“Blaze,” the older of the two brothers’d said. “On account of the white on her nose,” he’d added with a gesture towards his own nose.

“And on account of how likely she is to raise hell,” the younger’d grumbled.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Tyson’d called, not looking away from the horse. His horse. “She’s a Queen.”

True to the Schenns’ word, she’d been feisty then, and time certainly hadn’t mellowed her out. Over the years, Tyson’d lost more ‘n one hat to her insatiable appetite, and he’d learn to pay attention to how he hitched her up at night ever since she developed a knack for getting herself loose. One time he’d woken up from a dead sleep to her snorting and neighing as she frantically stomped a rattlesnake to death with her hooves. It’d been about two feet away from his bedroll, and had she not gotten her lead free, Tyson’s sure he’d’a been bit.

Tyson loves her more than he’d ever thought a boy from a fishing town could love a horse.

Mack used to joke that Queenie’s the only girl Tyson’d ever love, but he’d stopped that real quick when he’d figured out that the joke cut a little too close to the truth.)

* * *

When they finally reach the outskirts of the farms bordering Ogallala, they decide to stay a few days in the town to rest the horses and pick up more supplies. They’ve been fine boiling water and catching a few hare here ‘n there, a deer when they got lucky in one of the wooded areas, but there’s something to be said for fresh vegetables.

That, and Tyson’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to sleeping in a real bed for a night or two. A hot meal wouldn’t go amiss, neither. He says as much to Gabe, who laughs at him, big and bright.

“That’s all you need, huh? A soft bed and warm food?”

“I’m a simple man with simple needs,” Tyson sniffs.

“Simple is a kind way to put it, I suppose.”

“I ain’t talking to you ‘til we hit Ogallala. Have fun talkin’ to your horse.”

Gabe’s familiar laughter follows him as Tyson urges Queenie into a quick trot ahead of Benny. It ain’t a bad sound to get accustomed to.

* * *

Ogallala, Nebraska, is small, smaller ‘n either Abilene or Greeley. There’s only one street to Ogallala, Spruce Street, situated right in front of the train tracks and the depot. Tyson’s been to Ogallala two or three times before, at the tail end of cattle drives, and it ain’t much to write home about. Just two saloons, one boarding house, one hotel, one brothel, and one general store. More often ‘n not, there’re more cows ‘n people, thanks to the cattle drive, but this visit is different.

He’s never seen it so full of other people rather than cattle. The dusty street is darn near full of riders and carts, slow moving donkeys and high stepping show ponies. Music and voices pour out of the saloons and brothel.

They split up, Gabe to secure rooms above the saloon and Tyson to board the horses and see to it they have good hay and oats. Benny whinnies after Gabe as they part, but follows along behind Queenie goodnaturedly enough. After seeing to their horses, slipping an extra few coins to the young stable-hand when Queenie starts to make a fuss, Tyson slings the saddle bags over his shoulder and makes his way back to one of the saloons, the Cowboy’s Rest.

The air is smoky with tobacco and the smell of whiskey but he spots Gabe through the crowds by his height and the gold of his hair in the gaslamp lighting. Tyson makes his way to the table, which he is sure Gabe secured through use of his charming smile.

Tyson slides into the chair across from Gabe and accepts the pint of watered down beer shoved his way.

“Horses’re seen to,” he says after a long pull. “Though not without a fit from Queenie.”

“You’ve spoiled her,” Gabe says with a smile and a roll of his eyes.

“It’s what she deserves.” Beer half finished, Tyson leans back in his chair and tips his hat back to stare at his traveling partner. Gabe’d forgone shaving this far into the trip, and had developed a layer of stubble across his face that on anyone else’d’ve looked unkempt and unclean. Instead, Gabe looks every bit the cowboy hero saloon girls’d go crazy over. His golden hair’s gone brighter in the sun, and his shoulders strain against the stitching of his shirt and jacket. Even the spots of red on his cheeks from the neverending prairie winds make him look lively and bring out the sky blue of his eyes.

As Tyson looks his fill, eyes skipping over the bunch and pull of Gabe’s arms as he lifts his own pint of beer up, he accidentally makes eye contact with the man. They stare at each other, Gabe’s lips pink as a prairie wild rose as they rest against the rim of his glass. Tyson feels his cheeks flush and his mouth go dry.

Swallowing and looking away, Tyson drops a hand down to readjust his belt buckle.

“What’s the word on lodgings here?”

In his periphery, Tyson can see Gabe wince. “Well,” he drawls, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

Tyson grimaces. “Hit me with the bad.”

“It’s not too bad. But you’ve gotten a look at all the cowboys wandering around this town. It’s the tail end of the season and we’re not the only fellas looking to make our way to Cheyenne for the rodeo. Darn near all the rooms and beds are full.”

“I can make do camping again. The weather’s still fair,” Tyson says, and tries not to think on how good a soft bed would be for his saddle-sore body. He’d seen a handful of other cowboys making camp south of the river, but he’d had his heart set on getting a real bed for a night or two.

“We might not have to camp out. There was still one room available, so I went ahead and put coin down on it. We can share the bed, no sense in sleeping on the ground when we could sleep in a bed.” And he adds real quick, like he thinks he still has to sell the idea, like Tyson’d be crazy enough to decline a bed just because he’d have to share it, “The owner assured me it’s made with real goose down.”

“Bullshit, but go on,” Tyson snorts. “That’s the bad news? What’s the good news?”

“I managed to sweet talk our way into a couple of warm baths and two bowls of chili,” Gabe says, grinning like he’s just served Tyson the world on a silver platter.

And he might as well have. Tyson is shocked. He’d been hankering for a warm bath, with real soap, since the first day they left Abilene, but he didn’t think he’d get one before Cheyenne.

“We’d best take ‘em up on their offer, then,” Tyson says, raises his glass in a toast, and drains the rest of his beer.

“Guess so,” Gabe says, and does the same.

* * *

Later that night, they’re clean and soft from their baths, fresh-smellin’ and nary a speck of dust in sight. Tyson’s belly is full of good chili and he could sleep for a month, the Cheyenne rodeo be damned. They’re down to their underwear, the boarding house owner’s missus having offered to give their clothes a much-needed wash.

The room is barely big enough for the bed and the mattress ain’t goose down but it’s a damn sight better than their bedrolls spread out on the prairie grasses.

“You got a preference?” Gabe asks, toweling off the last bit of wet from his hair.

Tyson’s eyes dart up from where they’d been mighty focused on the waistband of Gabe’s underwear.

“I, uh,” Tyson says, and makes himself meet Gabe’s eyes. A week and some days riding with Gabe, he thought he’d be used to being around such a good-lookin’ fella. ‘Least, he should’a been. “A preference for what?”

“Side of the bed?” Gabe replies, and there’s an almost-smile tugging at his lips when he gestures at the bed. “You wanna sleep by the window, or by the door?”

“Window’s fine. You can take the door-side, let the bandits get you first,” Tyson says as he turns down the well-worn quilt on top of the mattress. Without looking back at Gabe, he slides under the covers and sighs as his body sinks into the softness of the bed.

“That’s mighty kind of you, Tys,” Gabe drawls, playing like he’s offended, and snuffs out the two lamps lighting the room. He turns down his own side of the quilt and lies down next to Tyson.

Tyson’s spent long enough away from beds to think that any mattress off the floor is fit for kings, but with Gabe lyin’ real close close to him in the dark with nothing separating their bare skin from each other, Tyson is all too aware of how small this bed is.

They try layin’ down on their backs, shoulder to shoulder and stiff. Gabe starts making these huffing noises, like he’s annoyed but too polite to say something. Despite the softness of the bed, it’s clear that neither of them are comfortable.

Tyson takes a deep breath before sighing.

“Quit your bellyaching and go to sleep,” he grumbles into the dark.

“This ain’t workin’,” Gabe grouses right on back.

Right as Tyson opens his mouth to invite Gabe to sleep on the floor if’n he’s so uncomfortable, Gabe sits up in the bed next to him and physically manhandles Tyson onto his side. Before Tyson can properly react, Gabe’s lied back down, spooned up behind him with an arm resting across Tyson’s waist.

“What’s the big idea here,” Tyson whispers. He holds himself stiff, afraid Gabe’ll get closer. Afraid Gabe’ll let go.

“It’s comfier this way,” is all Gabe has to say for himself. Tyson can feel the tip of Gabe’s nose tracing along the nape of his neck, right under where his hair’s gone shaggy and curly.

Tyson’s still tense, tense like he gets before big steer roping competitions in the few round-ups he’s been to. His muscles are bunched like he don’t know what direction to lean or jump in, ready to spring into action to pursue the steer with his lasso.

Gabe’s thumb starts rubbing small circles on his bare waist.

With a shuddering breath, Tyson lets himself go limp under Gabe’s arm, lets himself sink into the soft mattress beneath him and the warmth of Gabe behind him. Gabe makes a pleased-sounding noise, and tucks himself in closer behind Tyson.

“G’night, Tyson,” Gabe mumbles, sounding more ‘n half asleep.

“G’night,” Tyson whispers back, and he wills himself to sleep.

* * *

Tyson wakes up warm and hard. He’s young enough yet to be used to that second predicament, but the first? It’s too late in the season for the weather to run this hot in the early morning, and his joints don’t ache like they do after a night on the ground. He stretches and rolls his hips into the softness beneath him before he realizes where he is.

All through the night, they hadn’t moved much, only for Tyson to roll to his front. Gabe’s arm still lay across his lower back, gripping loosely at his hip. Tyson can feel Gabe’s face pressed into his shoulder, can feel the damp warmth of every breath that passes his lips.

He don’t want to get up. He wants to stay right where he is, caught between Gabe’s solid form and the softness of the mattress. He wants to rub himself to completion and turn over, get a hand or two on Gabe as well.

But he cain’t.

Instead, Tyson drags himself out of bed, leaving Gabe tucked away in the pillows and quilts, still asleep.

The missus had left their cleaned clothes just outside of their room, so Tyson pulls on trousers, a shirt, and a vest, and leaves his extra shirt and Gabe’s things just inside the door. There’s a little cafeteria set up on the main floor of the boarding house, and Tyson begs a buttered heel of bread and some sugar cubes from the woman ladelling out portions of porridge. By the time he steps out into the clear Nebraska morning, his head’s cleared up some and his pants are considerably less tight.

For a town with just one street, Ogallala is mighty busy at the crack of dawn. Cowboys’re up and about, wandering from saloon to boarding house to rustle up some grub. Two tired saloon girls trudge down Spruce Street from the other boarding house to the shacks north of town, and Tyson tips his hat to them, since his mama taught him right. They don’t even look at him, too set on putting one foot in front of the other. Tyson can respect that.

He heads out to the town stables to check on the horses.

Queenie, impatient, loyal girl that she is, stamps her hooves and knickers at him as he walks up to her stall. She slurps the sugar out of his hands indelicately, leaving a sticky trail of horse spit. Benny makes less of a fuss, licking his sugar up before peering over Tyson’s shoulder for any sign of Gabe. Tyson gives them a quick glance over, but the stable-hand had seen to them well. Their coats gleam and their hooves are clean and healthy. They had more ‘n enough hay and oats left, an impressive feat given that Queenie was more stomach ‘n horse.

Thinking back on how his morning started, Tyson sighs loud enough to startle Queenie and make Benny’s ears prick forward in curiosity. He scrubs a hand along Queenie’s neck. “I’m diggin’ myself into a real deep hole, girl.”

Bedsharing and waking up hard next to another man wasn’t new to Tyson. That sort of activity, he knows, sometimes happens when cowboys travel together. Hell, he’s engaged in it. He’s engaged in a _lot_ of it since his first drive.

But those sort of activities aren’t made to last. A warmer bedroll and a helping hand don’t last any longer’n the drive or the round up.

Horses seen to, Tyson heads back to the boarding house to meet up with Gabe and stock up on provisions. When he arrives in the room, Gabe gives him a small, stiff smile that has only a fraction of the warmth Tyson’d heard in his voice the night before. They gather a handful of coins from what’s left of their cattle drive payments, and wander over to the general store.

The air between them is stilted and awkward like it hadn’t been since the first drive they’d done together, when Tyson didn’t know how to treat a wealthy-man’s-son-turned-cowboy. They talk little and make eye contact less, gathering and paying for their supplies and returning them to their room in embarrassed silence.

Tyson ain’t sure what’s got Gabe’s britches in a bunch, but something’s eating away at his mind, that’s for sure.

Luckily, lunch breaks the tension between them. It’s hard for Tyson to stay silent while eating a good meal, and it’s hard for Gabe to not go in on Tyson for enjoying his leftover chilli enthusiastically.

“I cain’t tell if you learned your table manners from Queenie, or if it was the other way around,” Gabe says, staring wide eyed at Tyson as he devours his chilli.

“Well we ain’t at a table, so I ain’t gotta worry about table manners,” Tyson says, maybe a touch snottily. They’re leaned up against the wooden fence of the public paddock, watching their horses graze. In the corner of Tyson’s eye, he can see Gabe roll his eyes and smile.

This smile’s much better than the one Gabe gave him earlier: less like a drought-choked creek determined to cross a July prairie, more like mountain stream in April moving quickly with the last of the snowmelt. It’s clear, quick, and sincere.

Tyson loves it.

They waste an hour or two that way, leaning up against the fences and watching Queenie and Benny flick their tails lazily in the September breeze.

It’s quiet and comfortable, up until it’s not.

Three cowboys leading their horses make their way up to the paddock from Spruce Street, just as dirty and dusty as Tyson and Gabe were the day before, shouting and laughing. Benny flicks one ear at the disturbance but don’t stop his grazing. Queen shoves her way to the fence of the paddock, stretching her neck over to get a good look at the newcomers.

Once the other cowboys get closer, Gabe and Tyson tip their hats at them.

“Afternoon,” Gabe says. His shoulder brushes against Tyson’s when he brings his arm back down and Tyson is suddenly aware that they are standing mighty close to each other. He takes a step sideways.

“Howdy,” one of the cowboys says in response, tipping his own hat in return. He’s scruffy, in the way most cowboys are, with a short dark beard and a face made for smiling. He looks like the sort of fellow Tyson’d like immensely, but wouldn’t trust further ‘n he could throw him.

“‘Scuse us,” another cowboy says, big body hunched over like he’s real shy, leading his horse up to the paddock fence. He sees her in and loosens the lead from her bridle. She trots off to join Benny with a short whinny, ignoring Queenie entirely. The other two cowboys follow suit with their horses, turning them loose to graze. They all tuck their coiled up leads into their belt loops and turn back to Tyson and Gabe.

All three’ve got tattoos on their arms where their shirtsleeves are rolled up, dark lines of black ink like the sailors in the harbor back in Victoria. The scruffy one makes a big deal of surveying Tyson and Gabe, like he’s checking out a horse he might want to barter for. Or steal.

“Y’all from around here?” he asks. The shy cowboy rolls his eyes while the third, the proud owner of a massive reddish beard, barks a laugh.

“Nah,” Gabe says, cool as you please, slouching back against the fence and into Tyson’s space again. “We’re from up near Denver in Colorado.”

“Is there anyone who’d own up to being from Ogallala?” Tyson asks, peering around the single street, train depot, and paddock.

That gets him a laugh from all three. “Ain’t that the truth.” Scruffy looks at them and makes a considering noise. “We’re thinkin’ of headin’ on up to the Cowboy’s Rest, get us some drinks and maybe play a hand or two of cards. Y’all in?”

Gabe looks at Tyson and he shrugs. “Sure,” he says, “why the hell not?”

They leave the horses in the paddock for the rest of the afternoon and follow the three cowboys to the saloon for cards and drinks. Scruffy and his fellows are mighty generous, and pay for the first few rounds, enough to loosen the whole table’s tongues.

The three of them are Texas boys, two brothers by the last name of Benn and their scruffy pal from out East. Like Tyson and Gabe, they’re heading up to Cheyenne for the rodeo too. The brothers plan on competing in the steer roping and bronco busting while the scruffy fellow, with a grin saucy enough to set even the most proper preacher’s wife a-swoonin’, admits to being excited about the quick draw competitions.

“I’ve got the quickest hands this side of the Rio Grande,” he boasts. The younger of the two brothers turns red and jabs him the side while the older snorts into his beard. 

“Anyhow,” the older brother says, turning back to Tyson and Gabe, “y’all’re more ‘n welcome to join us on the road to Cheyenne. We’ll be leavin’ in a few days, once the horses are rested up.”

Tyson cuts his eyes over to look at Gabe, who is already looking at him with an unreadable emotion on his face. He bites his lip, and Tyson can’t help but let his eyes follow the motion.

He don’t really want to join up with the Texas boys. They’re nice, like Texas boys oughta be, but…barring the stiltedness they’d had earlier that day, traveling with Gabe’s been real nice. Tyson wouldn’t mind keeping this trip just between the two of them.

Gabe must be reading his mind because he says, “That’s awful nice of you fellas, but Tyson and I’d been planning on headin’ out tomorrow mornin’. We got a couple of folks we might want to meet up with in Cheyenne.”

Scruffy looks put out but the brothers shrug good-naturedly. “Sure thing,” says the older Benn, scratching at his beard.

“We gonna sit here waggin’ tongues or are you gonna raise your bet?” the younger Benn mumbles. He gestures at Tyson, who immediately folds with a bright smile. He used up all his card game luck on Queenie, and he knows it.

Sometime near dusk, they all call it quits and wander on over to the paddock to take the horses to the stable. Tyson laughs out loud when they get close enough to see that Queenie’s got to gnawing on the ears of one of the Texas boys’ horses. Even Gabe smiles at the sight as Benny comes up to nudge his nose against his rider’s shoulder.

They get their horses turned in for the night and bid farewell to the Texas boys, who’ve got a camp set up by the river, before turning back to the Ogallala House. Despite lazing around for most of the day, Tyson feels mighty tired and is awful glad when Gabe suggests they hit the hay.

Up in their room, after snuffing out the lamps, they follow the same strange ritual as the night before: Tyson sliding in first, then Gabe. Before they’re even truly settled in, Tyson turns to his side away from Gabe, reaching back behind him blindly for Gabe’s arm to lock ‘round his waist. Gabe don’t even need an invitation and sidles right up behind him. Tyson thinks he might feel a brush of lips against his shoulder, there and gone again like a summer breeze skipping across the prairie.

Just as Tyson’s about to drift off to sleep, Gabe murmurs in his ear, “Should’ve asked earlier. You alright not travelin’ with the Texas boys?”

Tyson nods against the pillow, feels Gabe’s lips brush against his ear. “Yeah. I like how it’s been: just you, me, and the hat you wear to hide how big your head is.”

Gabe pinches at his side and Tyson yelps, bringing down his hand to cover Gabe’s, get him to stop pinching. It works, and Gabe lets go, but Tyson just leaves his hand where it is, too tired to move it.

“I like how it’s been too,” Gabe whispers once they’ve settled down again. “G’night, Tyson.”

“G’night, Gabe.”

* * *

Unlike the morning before, Tyson jolts into awareness with the immediate knowledge of where he is and who he is with. He’s hard again, which don’t surprise him, but he can feel that Gabe’s hard where he’s pressed against his ass, and that do.

Tyson makes to wriggle his way out of Gabe’s hold but Gabe groans and tightens his arm, hand slipping dangerously low on Tyson’s stomach. Gabe rolls his hips, pressing his dick into Tyson’s ass, making him choke on his breath. Gabe groans again and mouths sleepily at the slope of Tyson’s shoulder. Tyson wants to stay right here until his dying breath, but he knows they...he knows he cain’t.

He pushes at Gabe again and says, “Budge up, I gotta go piss.”

With much grumbling, Gabe releases him and Tyson scrambles out from under the quilts and into his britches. He makes the mistake of looking back at Gabe as he leaves their room: blond hair mussed, blue eyes blurry and blinking after Tyson, soft and confused and more ‘n half asleep. Tyson has to walk out real fast then, knowing that if he hesitated even a second, he’d jump back into that bed faster ‘n a barefoot jackrabbit on a hot griddle.

When Tyson returns to their room from the latrine, feeling more awake and under control, Gabe is up and redressed, and their saddlebags are packed.

Gabe slaps at his shoulder and hands his saddlebag over. They head on down to the saloon to rustle up a big breakfast before heading out again. They both seem embarrassed, but it’s far and away better than the awful tension from the day before.

They still don’t talk about it.

* * *

They make camp as the sun starts to dip, having long passed the farmlands on the outside edges of Ogallala. The ride was quieter than usual, but not uncomfortable: Tyson was caught in his own thoughts, thinking about how it felt waking up next to Gabe and wondering what it was that held him back from asking for more.

“You’ve been mighty quiet today,” Gabe says as they brush down Queenie and Benny, the saddles draped over some shrubs.

“So’ve you,” Tyson says and raises an eyebrow at Gabe’s frustrated snort.

“I’m just making an observation,” he says.

Tyson makes a face at him, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue like Tyson the Bison. Gabe rolls his eyes but Tyson can see the corners of his lips tick up into a smile.

They make food over the open fire and watch the stars come out. Gabe sings a traditional cow herding song passed down through his family. Tyson cain’t understand a lick of it, but it’s beautiful and sad and lonely. It brings a prick of tears to his eyes, but if Gabe notices he don’t say nothing.

When it comes time to hit the hay, Gabe rolls out his bedroll right next to Tyson’s. For as late as it is in the season, the night is cool but not cold, but Gabe don’t even make that excuse when Tyson sends him a puzzled glance.

He just says, “Ogallala was nice,” and kicks off his boots.

Battling confusion and relief, Tyson follows suit and crawls into his own bedroll, breathing out slow and steady as Gabe wraps an arm around him that is quickly beginning to feel familiar. 

They fall asleep to the sound of the wind whistling across the prairie.

* * *

In many ways, the next two days follow the same pattern that Tyson and Gabe’d fixed up in the weeks prior to Ogallala: wake up, get dressed, eat breakfast, saddle up. Ride up the well worn paths of the Western Trail, taking detours here ‘n there to feed and water the horses. Then make camp, fix supper, trade songs by firelight and starlight.

There were some mighty peculiar differences though: Gabe taking it upon himself to personally tie Tyson’s handkerchief ‘round his neck each morning; Tyson touching at Gabe’s elbows, waist, shoulders, to get his attention, even if it meant reaching out across the distance between their horses; and finally, bunking down with their bedrolls near on top of each other, Tyson held tight in Gabe’s arms.

It’s dangerous, not on account of coyotes or wandering gangs of horse thieves. It’s dangerous, because now Tyson knows what he could have, but he ain’t sure if he’s brave enough to keep it.

* * *

On the morning of their third day out of Ogallala, about three days’ ride from Cheyenne, they wake up to a storm brewing.

“It’s gonna be a big one,” Tyson says, peering past the brim of his hat at the clouds roiling far across the plains to the east.

Gabe hums in agreement. “Those clouds’ve got the look of thunder on ‘em.” Benny snorts and Gabe reaches out to pat at his withers. “You want to find shelter and sit today out ‘til the storm passes? We ain’t near any towns, but we might find a farmhouse nearby.”

“We might as well keep goin’,” Tyson says. “Mama ain’t raise no quitter.”

“Nah, and she ain’t raise no orator, neither.”

“Take your fancy words and shove ‘em up your ass, Gabriel. Not all of us went to some hoity-toity school in Denver.”

Gabe throws his head back and laughs and laughs, like being called pompous and educated is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

The horses are a bit nervous what with the smell of the storm on the wind, but they plod along through the tall grasses. By midday, clouds begin to blot out the sun though the storm is still a good three hours away from hitting them. They stop for dinner, eating sprawled out in the prairie grass as they let Benny and Queenie graze.

As they look out across the plains, a herd of pronghorns bound through the grasses in search of shelter afore the storm hits. They remind Tyson of the dolphins just off the coast of the island, jumping in and out of the cresting golden waves instead of the salty Pacific.

“Y’ever seen the ocean, Landy?” Tyson asks him, darting a look over at his partner.

“Once, a long time ago. When my family first came to America.”

“How much d’you remember ‘bout it?”

“I was mighty young,” Gabe says, and pauses to think on it. Bugs chirp in the grass ‘round them and Queenie whickers to herself as she grazes. Finally Gabe takes a deep breath and says, “Big. Wide. Limitless. All that water and no land scared me.”

Tyson hums, optin’ not to poke fun at Gabe. A queer mood’s settled over them with the heavy storm clouds. It reminds Tyson of sharing secrets with sister Victoria late at night, whispering under grandma’s old quilts. “I grew up by the ocean. Pacific, not Atlantic. Grandpa settled his family there in the gold rush and we just stuck around, I ‘spose.”

“How’d you get all the way out here then?”

Tyson shrugs and continues peering out at the bounding shapes of the pronghorns. “Wide as that ocean is, it was the land that wasn’t quite open enough for the likes of me. People there that didn’t…” He trails off and cuts eyes over to Gabe who is watchin’ him, blue eyes steady as the ocean on a calm day. He swallows down the bitter taste of the past.

“And the Range is open enough?”

“So far so good.” Tyson leans back on his elbows, in a mirror of Gabe’s position. It takes some thought, but he manages to unclench his fists. “It can be mighty lonesome, but I ain’t gotta tell you that. I got my horse. I still got EJ and Mack, when he ain’t wandering around Montana.”

“And you got me,” Gabe says, voice all light though there’s a seriousness in his eyes, and stretches his own hand out.

Their fingers tangle in the prairie grass and the last of the summer’s bluebells.

“Yeah. Yeah, I reckon I do.”

* * *

They sit like that, hands intertwined and shoulders leaning into each other, for a piece longer ‘n they ought. The towering dark clouds and distant rumble of thunder eventually push them up and back onto their horses. Queenie dances sideways once Tyson’s fully seated, flicking her ears back nervously. Even Gabe’s placid Benny stomps his hooves and pulls a little at the reins before settling into his usual pace.

They make it another two hours before the first drops of rain fall. The prairie around them is hilly and sorely lacking in any vegetation taller ‘n a bush. In the distance, Tyson spots the figures of scrawny wind-bent trees just tall enough to drape the canvas over and give protection to their horses. They push Queenie and Bennie into a trot towards the copse, wary of the dusty ground turning to mud under the horse’s hooves.

By the time they make the trees, the rain is coming down like bullets and they cain’t see more n’ three horse lengths in front of them. They hitch their horses to the trees and split up, Tyson to set up the tent in the flattest area near the trees and Gabe to make a lean-to with the large canvas and the trees.

“Shee-yit,” Tyson curses. The tent poles and stakes go into the top layer of the soil real easy but it takes some doin’ to get them deep enough the hold through the storm.

By the time he’s got the tent pitched, Tyson is soaking. It won’t get them any drier but it’ll keep them from getting any wetter. He hauls the saddlebags inside and sets up the bedrolls.

It’s a good thing they’d gotten used to sleeping curled into each other, since the tent is mighty small even without the damp saddlebags in the corner.

Tyson ducks back into the downpour to check on Gabe’s progress with the lean-to and the horses.

“Everything good here?” he asks as he steps under the shelter of the canvas. He takes off his hat and shakes out his hair, feelin’ more ‘n a bit like a drowned rat. Gabe’s just as wet as he is, but the man still manages to make half-drowned cowboy look good.

Some fellas have all the luck.

“They ain’t happy, but at least they’re out of the rain,” Gabe confirms with a tight smile.

Gabe slides the saddle off Benny so Tyson sidles on over to where Queenie is hitched to a branch to do the same. He smoothes a hand over her faintly trembling flank and tries to quiet her. He rests the saddle over another low-hanging branch and removes the blanket to shake out the worst of the wet.

Out of the blue there's a crack of lightning nearly overhead and the thunder sounds like cannon fire. The prairie is awash with white light and the earth trembles beneath their boots.

Queenie spooks and rears, eyes rolling in terror. The branch her lead is tied to snaps and she bolts.

“Hey!” Tyson hollers. His heart is caught in his throat and he’s running after her in the rain afore he can think. “Queenie! Queenie, get your ass back here _now_!” His voice cracks with panic and he stumbles and slips on the wet prairie grass. He cain’t even see her, the rain too heavy and dark.

“Queenie,” Tyson says again, lost.

The beat of the rain is so heavy, Tyson don’t even hear Benny until the horse has galloped past him into the sheets of rain, Gabe hunched low and urging him on faster. He must’ve unhitched Benny and vaulted on bareback as soon as Queenie bolted, ‘stead of runnin’ out into the rain like a damn fool.

Before Tyson can call out to them, run after them, do _something_ , horse and rider disappear into the same storm that took his Queenie. The sound of his own blood rushing in his ears nearly drowns out the sound of the rain and Tyson is all too aware of how alone he is, out in the middle of some unknown corner of Nebraska. He ain’t got his horse, and he ain’t got his...he ain’t got his Gabe.

He cain’t afford to lose neither of them. His heart couldn’t take it.

Tyson returns to their camp, but he still stands out in the rain, getting soaked, peering into the darkness for full on half an hour before two slow moving shapes make their way out of the sheets of rain. It's Gabe on Benny, both soaked to the bone, leading a panicky Queenie back to the camp. Tyson runs forward to grab at Queenie's head, pressing their foreheads together.

“Don’t you ever do that again, you hear me?” he says to her, blinking back rain and tears. He rubs at her soft brown nose. “You ain’t allowed to run out on me. Ain’t no one out there on the prairie to sneak you sugar cubes and apples. And you still owe me at least two hats!”

Only after she knickers at him in what he’s going to generously assume is agreement does Tyson pull back. He runs his hands over her neck, her sides, her legs, uncaring of the heavy rain still beating down on them. He don’t trust the ground, not in this heavy rain, not when she was spooked.

“She okay?”

Tyson’s head jerks up to stare at Gabe, who’d dismounted Benny and was standin’ just behind Tyson, the horses’ leads in hand. Gabe and Benny are mud-splattered and breathing hard.

Without stopping to think, Tyson reaches forward to brush Gabe’s sopping wet hair out of his face, knocking his hat off in the process. He pushes up on the balls of his feet to press his lips to Gabe’s in a sloppy, ardent kiss. Relief and gratitude and something else that’s been building between Abilene and here course through his veins, light and bubbly as ale, and he feels drunk and overwhelmed with his emotions.

Gabe makes a noise and parts his lips as Tyson’s free hand tangles in Gabe’s neckerchief. Tyson don’t waste no time in tracing Gabe’s lips with his tongue, whining high in his throat when Gabe’s tongue meets his. They kiss fiercely, payin’ no mind to the rain still coming down on them.

There could be a second flood, sweepin’ him and Gabe out to the ocean, and Tyson would still keep on kissin’ Gabe ‘til they drowned.

A sharp whinny breaks them apart and it takes all of Tyson’s strength to drag his eyes away from Gabe’s wet, red mouth. The poor horses are soaked and tired, trembling with cold. Queenie looks at him beseechingly, like she didn’t get herself in this mess to start with.

Tyson bites his lip and releases his hold on Gabe’s neckerchief. He takes a stumbling step backwards and all of a sudden Tyson’s head is a riot of hysterical questions: why’d he go and let himself do that? Why’d he ruin years of friendship just to thank Gabe for catching his idiot horse?

Why’d Gabe let him?

Why’d Gabe kiss back like Tyson was a glass of cool water and he was a thirsty man in the desert?

Gabe’s eyes dart across Tyson’s face like he’s searchin’ for something before he turns back to camp. He leads the two horses back to the shelter. Tyson picks up Gabe’s hat from the sodden ground and follows, head buzzing like a limb waking up after falling asleep. The storm has eased up some: no more thunder or lightning, but still plenty of rain. They double check the knots tying the horses’ leads to the tree branches and bed them down for the night, all without speaking a word. 

In the too-small tent they lay next to each other, stiff and uncomfortable, just like that first night in Ogallala. Tyson’s head is still buzzing, half focused on the panic he’d felt when Queenie’d bolted into the darkness, half focused on the feeling of Gabe’s wet lips moving against his own. 

The rain quiets down, a shower more ‘n a downpour, and Gabe turns to lie on his side, facing Tyson. Tyson swallows and stares up at the canvas peak of the tent.

“Tys, please look at me.”

Gabe’s voice is rough, like months have passed since he last spoke. It sends shivers up and down Tyson’s spine.

Tyson takes a breath and turns, lies on his side so he mirrors Gabe. There ain’t much light filtering into the tent, the inside near pitch black. Still, Tyson can see the vague shape of Gabe’s head, the slight movement of his eyelids when he blinks. Tyson wants to run his fingers along Gabe’s face, to know him by touch as well as sight.

“Back out there, in the rain,” Gabe continues, voice soft and timid in way it nearly never is . “Why’d you… Why’d you kiss me?”

Tyson ain’t ready to confess, is scared to confess, don’t know what he’d confess, so he asks instead, “Why’d you go running break-neck into a storm to grab my horse?”

“Because she’s important to you. You’re important to me.” Gabe says it real simple, like it’s just that easy to hand your heart on over to someone.

And.

Maybe it is.

Tyson closes his eyes. He knows Gabe cain’t see him, not in this near darkness, but what he’s gonna say next’ll be so much easier with his eyes closed.

“Well, that’s why I kissed you. You’re important to me. Wouldn’t be nowhere without you.”

Tyson keeps his eyes shut tight, even as he hears Gabe fidget and move around. A big warm hand cups his jaw and Tyson’s lips open in a gasp just as lips press against his in a kiss. Their lips don’t quite match up on account of the darkness, but either Gabe or Tyson shift and everything lines up and it is damn near the most perfect kiss Tyson has ever experienced.

* * *

The next morning, they’re woken by the pale light of dawn streaming into the tent, much fairer weather ‘n the night before. Before they get out of their bedrolls to pack up camp and head out, Gabe runs a calloused hand up and down Tyson’s bare flank, planting kisses in rows down the plane of Tyson’s shoulder. Still mostly half asleep, Tyson reaches back to grasp Gabe’s hand. Gabe squeezes it once before he pushes himself up and out of the tent with a groan.

Somewhere beyond the canvas of the tent, Queenie whinnies her hello to Gabe and Gabe laughs, as bright and beautiful as the morning.

Tyson carefully presses his face into his bedroll and yells as loud as he can without attractin’ Gabe’s attention. He’s gone and dug himself into a hole now, but god _damn_ if it doesn’t seem worth it. His fingertips are still buzzing with the feel of Gabe’s bare skin, he can still taste Gabe’s lips on his.

“Shit,” Tyson says, then, “shee-yit,” again, real slow. Like if he takes a moment to think before he acts, his whole predicament will clear right up.

It don’t.

Tyson lies around for a moment or two more before pushing himself up and into his boots, knowing Gabe will accuse him of lazing around otherwise.

Other than a few touches here and there throughout the day, Gabe acts same as ever. He fixes Tyson’s neckerchief, pokes fun at how fast Tyson eats his breakfast, packs up camp, tacks up Benny, and hops into the saddle. Once Tyson and Queenie are similarly ready to go, they continue westward. They stop for lunch, and to water the horses along Lodgepole Creek, and to trade a few barbs, before heading onward.

It’s almost like the night before’d never happened.

Needless to say, Tyson don’t quite know where they stand, and that scares him. He knows how these sorts of affairs usually go, and that ain’t something he’s looking forward to.

* * *

(There’d been a cowboy on that first drive, a boy barely older than Tyson himself, but with so much more experience. Factor’d been on a handful of other drives, and had his own horse. He was the sort of cowboy Tyson’d dreamed of becoming. Tyson’d followed him around near constantly, eyes stuck on his hands when he’d practice his roping, his thighs when he urged his horse into a canter, his lips when he drank from his canteen. Each time Factor’d catch him looking, he’d send Tyson a small smile, like the stares between them were their own little secret. He’d shown Tyson the ropes to the cattle drive, and before the party’d left Texas, he’d invited Tyson into his bedroll.

It was everything Tyson’d ever wanted, and hated himself for wanting. It was what drove him to leave Victoria.

The solid feel of Factor’s muscles under his palms; the scrape of stubble against his cheek, his chest, his thighs; weaving Factor’s dark curls between his fingers and pulling. Learning to use his hands and body to bring another man to completion, and to be brought over the edge in return.

For two months, he and Factor’d been attached at the hip, in more ways ‘n one. Every moment not on horseback or herding the cattle, they’d been tangled together.

Then, a day out of Dodge, Tyson’d made the mistake of asking what they’d do after the drive.

“Oh, T-Bear,” Factor’d said. The look of sad pity’d made something in Tyson’s chest curl up and die. “This wasn’t ever gonna go beyond the drive. What we had, it was good, it was what we needed for two months away from towns and _girls_. Once we hit Dodge and hand over the cattle, you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine. Arrangements like ours on a drive work, but don’t go lookin’ for anything long term.”

And since then, Tyson hadn’t.)

* * *

They stop to make camp later ‘n usual, trying to make up for the miles lost to the storm, and the stars are already out as Gabe builds a fire and Tyson sees to the horses. Tyson feeds them each a withered apple and sets to rubbing them down, paying Queenie more mind to see if her spook the night before was causing her any trouble. She was fine earlier that morning aside from more dirt to be picked out of her hooves, but Tyson wants to be sure his girl is fit as a fiddle.

“Don’t go running out on me again,” he warns her. “That might’ve worked out for us one time, but we ain’t got the sort of luck for it to happen again.”

Queenie stretches out her neck and takes a half-hearted chomp at his hat.

“Hey!” he shouts, jerking back and grabbing at his hat. Queenie’s answering whinny sounds an awful lot like horse laughter, and he don’t appreciate her makin’ light of the situation. Just as he’s about to tell her so, Gabe hollers at them from the campfire.

“If’n you two’re done fighting like school kids, supper’s ready.”

“Hold your horses, Landeskog,” Tyson hollers right on back before swinging to look back at Queenie. “Wish me luck,” he says to her nonsensically. He pats her again on the neck and reaches out to scratch at Benny’s ears before turning away.

Tyson makes his way over to the fire with some apprehension (maybe not apprehension, but a certain amount of excitement bubbling up in his veins). It feels like that lasso around his chest is back, but the tightening of the rope ain’t makin’ him feel scared or panicky. Instead, he feels like he’s ready and rarin’ to go. Like maybe…

Like maybe they’ll kiss again tonight.

Like maybe they’ll get around to more ‘n just some light touchin’ in the dark.

In the dirt by the campfire, Gabe’s already served up pork and beans on their mess-kit plates. A cast iron of skillet bread dough is tucked away in the coals of the fire, cooking away under Gabe’s watchful eye. Their bedrolls are spread out close as ever, no tent put up on account of the clearness of the night.

Tyson sits down next to Gabe by the fire, their shoulders brushing.

“How’re the beans tonight, Landy?” Tyson asks, accepting his plate.

“Same as always. Though you always eat your supper so fast, I don’t think you’d be able to tell the difference if I added a handful of dirt to the pot.”

“You wound me. I am a man of discerning tastes, Gabriel.” Tyson kicks his boot out at Gabe’s shin and delicately lifts of forkful of beans to his mouth.

“I’m sure you are,” Gabe says, softly. He’s still laughing at Tyson, Tyson knows this, but his face is soft in the firelight and the look on it makes Tyson swallow hard, not even tasting the beans.

“Shut up and eat your dirt beans, Gabe,” Tyson grumbles, his cheeks flushing. Gabe just laughs and flips the skillet in the coals.

Once they finish their dinner, Gabe pulls the skillet out to cool. They wash their plates in the nearby creek, which they traveled along for most of the day. All of the dinner dishes packed away with the exception of the cast iron skillet, they kick off their boots and recline by the fire.

Gabe tests the skillet and makes a pleased sound. He uncovers it and breaks off a wedge of the bread. “Does this please your palate, man of discerning tastes?” Gabe asks, voice heavy with what he must think is wit. Tyson snorts but takes the offered wedge of bread.

The bread is fluffy and crumbly, slightly on the salty side and not unlike the biscuits folks in Kansas and Texas like to serve with jam and butter. It’s better ‘n most of the food they’ve cooked up so far, and Tyson feels oddly betrayed that Gabe’s held out on him. But even so, it’s missin’ something.

“This is mighty good,” Tyson says, mouth still full. Crumbles tumble out of the corner of his mouth, but he cain’t bring himself to care. After weeks on the Trail together, Gabe’s seen worse. “But it could be even better with some honey, maybe a touch of cinnamon.”

“Oh yeah? You happen to have any of that squirreled away in your saddlebags?”

“You even gotta ask, Landy?” Tyson says with a sharp grin and leans over to his saddlebag. He rummages around in it before pulling out a small vial and spice box. He ain’t got to look at Gabe’s face to know he’s rolling his eyes.

“How could I forget who I’m riding with?”

“Laugh it up while you can, Landeskog, this’ll change your whole worldview on skillet bread.” Tyson drizzles a touch of honey on the wedge he still has in his hand and adds a sprinkle of cinnamon.

As he sets aside his second-best kept secrets, a sudden flash of courage and adrenaline jolts through Tyson’s body. He looks up and meets Gabe’s eye, finds the other man staring back at him with a fond, amused look that’s softer ‘n most of their traded barbs. Tyson swallows and shifts onto his knees so that he hovers closer into Gabe’s space.

Rather ‘n just handing it to Gabe, Tyson holds the skillet bread up to Gabe’s lips. After a moment of hesitation, Gabe’s eyes flicking down to the sweet and then back up to meet his, Gabe takes a bite. His bottom lip catches on Tyson’s fingers and _oh_.

Tyson’s trousers get much tighter.

Something builds in Tyson, like a wave before it crests, like a towering stormcloud before the rain starts. A pot of water that’s been sittin’ in a campfire for too long, ready to boil over. The hum of a crowd before the star roper rides into the corral.

In awe of the sight before him, Tyson stares at Gabe as he chews the bread, blond lashes glinting in the firelight. Tyson forgets to move his fingers from where they’re resting against Gabe’s lips, but then Gabe swallows and his pink tongue darts out lick up a drop of honey off Tyson’s finger, and he looks up at Tyson from beneath those blond eyelashes, and— 

Tyson’s had that look turned on him by other men a time or two along the dusty Trails and in dark saloons in the far corners of nowhere. It damn near steals his breath away to see it reflected in Gabriel Landeskog’s prairie-sky blue eyes, but Tyson knows what it means.

“That’s real good, Tys,” Gabe says, voice deep and rough, and Tyson don’t think he’s talking about the honey bread. He reaches a hand up to hook around Tyson’s neck and pull him down, but Tyson’s already leaning in, desperate to chase the sweet tang of honey and cinnamon on Gabe’s lips.

Tyson shoves the skillet out of the way and hauls himself into Gabe’s lap, sighing against Gabe’s mouth as the other man’s hands come up to cradle his hips. They kiss and kiss and kiss, licking and biting at each other’s lips real soft like. Tyson presses closer and closer to Gabe, like if he can get just close enough, they can become one body under the endless skies of the prairie.

Finally, Tyson pushes just close enough that Gabe tips back into the bedroll, his grip on Tyson’s hip pulling him down too.

Gabe untucks Tyson’s shirts from his trousers, running one hand up Tyson’s bare back, keeping the other tangled tight in Tyson’s shaggy curls. Tyson moans and sucks on Gabe’s lower lip, balancing on one elbow planted right by Gabe’s head as he tugs at Gabe’s neckerchief.

“Why’d’ya wear so many goddamn layers?” Tyson grumbles against Gabe’s mouth, tugging the neckerchief aside and starting in on the buttons of his outershirt.

“It gets real cold at night on the prairie, Tyson,” Gabe says, breathy and condescending all at once. If he’s still got the sense to sass Tyson like that, then Tyson ain’t doing his job right. With the neckerchief tossed aside, Tyson sets his sights on gettin’ his mouth on Gabe’s neck, just under the line of his beard. He presses open mouthed kisses to the soft skin there, groaning as he tastes salt, sweat, and something distinctly Gabe. Tyson sucks on that spot on Gabe’s neck where he can _feel_ his pulse, and he’s rewarded with a low moan.

As Tyson sets to marking up Gabe’s neck with bruises the color of plums, his shaking fingers work to undo the buttons of Gabe’s shirts until the fabric parts like soft dirt before a plow. Tyson pulls away from Gabe’s neck to take in the view. He’s seen it all before, but now, in the firelight, when he’s finally allowed to _look_ , it’s almost too much. Tyson traces his fingertips down Gabe’s chest and through the light dusting of blond hair there, resting his palm against the defined muscles of Gabe’s flank. The muscles under his palm tremble, not like Gabe’s frightened, but like he’s excited and holding back.

“You’re so goddamned beautiful,” Tyson says before he can stop himself. “You’ve been beautiful since the day I met you.”

Gabe makes an incoherent sound and the hand still tangled in Tyson’s hair _yanks_ and he’s pulled up into a bruising kiss. The hand sweeping across Tyson’s shoulders veers south, grabbing a handful of Tyson’s backside and making him gasp into their kiss and buck his hips. Then Gabe pulls and twists, like he’s wrestling a calf, and Tyson finds himself on his back blinking up at Gabe’s grinning face.

“Y’alright there?” Gabe asks, cool as you please as his hips press Tyson’s into the bedroll. Tyson can feel their erections pressing against each other through their trousers and his entire body goes hot in the cool September night air.

“Quit talkin’,” Tyson says, running his hands up Gabe’s shoulders and into his soft blond hair, and pulls him into another kiss.

“I don’t think you want me to,” Gabe says against Tyson’s lips, plucking at Tyson’s shirt buttons. He’s pulling the same move Tyson did, only his fingers don’t shake. “I think you like it when I talk.”

“That ain’t nothin’ but vicious slander.” Tyson hooks one leg ‘round Gabe’s and rolls his hips up, settin’ a rhythm that’s got the both of them panting and cursing.

Sooner rather ‘n later, Gabe’s got all the buttons of Tyson’s shirts undone and Tyson can feel the cool prairie wind dance across his bare chest.

“‘Your very flesh shall be a great poem,’” Gabe murmurs like he’s quoting something again, leaning back to look down at Tyson. Tyson feels his cheeks and chest flush like a sunburn as Gabe stares down at him unblinkingly. Gabe smiles at him and leans back down to blanket Tyson’s body with his own.

After pressing a kiss to the corner of Tyson’s mouth, Gabe drags his lips down the side of his mouth, nipping as he goes. Tyson’s hands clench in Gabe’s hair and Gabe reaches up to tangle his left hand with Tyson’s right. “‘Touch me,’” he says against Tyson’s collarbone, pressing Tyson’s hand against Gabe’s chest. “‘Touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass. Be not afraid of my body,’” he says as his lips ghost across Tyson’s nipples and down the flat of his stomach, pausing to hover just above the waistband of his trousers.

Tyson’s entire body erupts in gooseflesh and he cain’t hardly catch his breath.

“What are you doing?” Tyson asks, staring down at Gabe with wide eyes. The fire is starting to die down, but Tyson can see the reflection of it in Gabe’s dark eyes. Gabe tucks his fingers into the waistband of Tyson’s trousers, giving the flies a tug.

“I can use my mouth. It’ll feel real good,” Gabe says, breathless and almost pleading. “Promise.”

“No, I…” Tyson swallows hard. The sight of Gabe’s earnest face so close to his dick, separated only by a layer or two, has stolen the breath from Tyson’s chest. “No, I mean. I know it does. Just. It ain’t too French for you?”

Gabe’s nose wrinkles. “French?”

Tyson huffs out a breath and swings his eyes up to stare at the stars instead. “You know. Unnatural. Foreign. Unamerican.”

“Well it’s a good thing we ain’t American, ain’t it?” Gabe says and Tyson looks back at him just in time for Gabe to stretch forward and press a soft kiss to Tyson’s mouth. Tyson presses into the kiss, whining when Gabe pulls back. “You don’t want it, I won’t push. But Tys, I’d really like to get my mouth on you.”

“Oh my god,” Tyson gasps, giddy and overwhelmed. “Yes. Please.”

Tyson’d done it to a handful of cowboys before, liked the heavy weight on his tongue, the taste in his mouth, the powerful feeling of control as he pressed a man’s hips down into the dirt or the side of a barn; but not one of them had returned the favor. Not a god damn one of them had— 

In a flash, Gabe has got his flies undone and his dick out, stroking it almost hesitantly in his hand. Tyson groans and throws his head back, one hand gripping Gabe’s shoulder and the other intertwined in Gabe’s hair. Gabe gives a few more strokes, gets Tyson to arch his back against the bedroll and whine high in his throat, before he says,

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

“ _Please_ ,” Tyson says, and, “oh my _god_ ,” as Gabe sets to him with lips and tongue and warmth and _heat_.

Tyson ain’t one to brag, but he’s been on more ‘n one tour of the Range. He’s been in and out of bedrolls, beds in overcrowded public houses, haylofts, and the occasional abandoned stall or two. He ain’t too young a man, and in his years on the Range, he has cultivated what he has thought to be a mighty impressive stamina. Not one of his bed partners in recent years has complained of him being too quick on the draw or for firin’ his pistol too early.

But then, none of his bed partners has been Gabriel Landeskog, the man he may or may not have been in love with for half a decade.

It don’t take too long before Tyson’s shaking and moaning like a saloon girl, squeezing at Gabe’s shoulder and tugging at his hair and whispering urgently, “Gabe, Gabe, _Gabe_ , I’m—I’m gonna—” Gabe only swallows and sucks harder in response to Tyson’s urgency and Tyson moans like a two dollar whore as he finds his release in Gabe’s mouth.

The release takes him by surprise, leaves him boneless and breathless, staring up at the starry sky as the constellations seem to whirl and dance. Tyson hears Gabe spit into the tall prairie grass by their campsite and turns to gawp at him in wonder as the man flops down next to him on the bedroll, smile all wide and pleased-lookin’.

“Was that up to your standards?” Gabe asks, resting a palm on Tyson’s heaving chest. Tyson pitches over to plant a kiss on Gabe’s lips, shivering at the thought of tasting himself.

“More ‘n,” Tyson says, voice shaky and scratchy. “It set the standard. That’s the first time anyone’s…”

“Oh,” Gabe says, wide-eyed, before frowning. “That ain’t right. It ain’t nearly as disgustin’ or unclean or _unnatural_ as people make it out to be.”

Tyson has to lean in and kiss him again for that, or else he might near die. Under his hands, Gabe is still trembling and Tyson can feel his erection pressing into his thigh. He drags one hand down to press against it and Gabe groans into his mouth. Tyson pulls back from the kiss to bite at Gabe’s jaw, and Gabe’s hands grip hard at his hips.

“Wanna know a secret?” Tyson asks, right in Gabe’s ear. He presses his hand firmer against Gabe. Gabe nods, breath shaky. “I actually like doin’ it. Y’want me to demonstrate?”

The look of wide-eyed wonder on Gabe’s face as Tyson trails his lips down his body is almost as good as his own release.

* * *

Queenie’s shrill neighing wakes Tyson out of a dead sleep. He sits bolt upright, panting and shivering in the cold of the predawn. Next to him, Gabe struggles out of the blankets. They hop to their feet and struggle to do up their trousers and pull their boots on.

Running over to the horses, expecting horse thieves or rattlers or worse, Gabe and Tyson pull up short at the sight of their horses. 

Queenie’d gotten herself tangled in her own lead while trying to reach for a fresh patch of grass, hoof over hoof over lead, neighing pitifully. Benny stood by her placidly, nibbling gently at her twitching ears. After a moment of silence to take in the scene, the two of them burst into laughter. Gabe doubles over and slaps at his knee. Tyson leans against him for support. 

“Your goddamn horse,” Gabe gasps out. “Only your goddamn horse would get herself into this much trouble.” 

Queenie whinnies sharply at them, taking great offense. Tyson sucks in a breath to stand and goes to free his dumbass horse, the light of his goddamn life. 

Well, maybe not the only light of his goddamn life, Tyson thinks and sends a sidelong glance to Gabe, still hunched over and shaking with laughter.

Before they get ready to ride, Gabe gently cups Tyson’s cheek in one calloused hand and kisses him. It’s different from the other kisses they’ve shared, sweet and lingering and they both know it ain’t gonna lead nowhere, since they’ve gotta get to Cheyenne in the next few days. It makes Tyson feel cherished and warm, something that reminds him of sitting under his great grandma’s quilt with his sister, the distant rush of the ocean mingling with the pops and snaps of the fire. The memory should make him sad, but it don’t. He’s too caught up in the feel of Gabe’s prairie-chapped lips sliding and catching against his own.

They break apart slowly, like a frozen creek thawing in the first sunny day of spring. Gabe’s eyes are crinkled up with the size of his smile and Tyson is helpless to do anything but smile right on back, heart soaring like an eagle over the plains. Gabe presses one more half-kiss to Tyson’s lips and turns away to saddle Benny up. Tyson touches his fingertips to his lips and turns to Queenie to saddle her up too..

He still don’t know what they’re doing.

* * * 

They don’t stop for a long lunch that day, just munch on the remainder of the skillet bread and honey that they had barely remembered to put away the night before while they give Queenie and Benny a breather. Unlike the day before, Gabe is more ‘n happy enough to dole out more kisses in the light of day and Tyson feels bold enough to repay him in kind. The kisses they exchange are nothin’ more ‘n cute little pecks whenever they’re out of the saddle, or whenever Tyson steers Queenie close enough to Benny to lean into Gabe’s space. They’re soft, sweet kisses. More like a hello-I’m-glad-to-be-here-with-you kiss. The kind of kisses his ma and pa would exchange at the end of a long day, or on Sundays before church service.

Tyson cain’t remember the last time he’s kissed anyone like this.

It’s nice.

In the saddle, Gabe sings more of his cow herding songs, and a few other folk songs, more lilting and jovial and less lonely. Tyson sings the one or two sea shanties he remembers from the port, turning red and laughing when Gabe makes exaggerated faces of shock and awe at the lewder lyrics. Tyson cain’t even finish the second shanty, he’s laughing too hard.

As the sun tips into the midafternoon, Tyson watches the shadows of their horses plod along the trail. In the far distance, a small herd of antelope raise their heads from grazing to watch them pass. The prairie is alive with the sounds of the birds and insects of late summer. It ain’t nothing like the ocean, but all the same, it feels like home. And now, with Gabe traveling by his side, a soft smile on his face every time he catches Tyson staring, he don’t feel near as lonely as he always had before.

Tyson’s been friendly with Gabe for the past few years, and he’s been playful for the better part of the trip to Cheyenne, but he’s never been so free with his emotions and smiles with anyone apart from Mack.

Unbidden, a tune comes to Tyson’s mind, and he cain’t help but whistle along.

Gabe pulls Benny up so they’re riding abreast on the dirt trail, throwing another easy smile Tyson’s way. “What’re you whistlin’ along to, Tys? Another love song about food?”

“You think you’re so funny, but let me tell you that you,” Tyson jabs a finger at Gabe’s smirk, “most definitely ain’t.”

Gabe hums. “I don’t think I’m willin’ to take lessons on jokes from a man who thinks the size of his travelin’ companion’s head is the height of humor.”

“But sugar,” Tyson says sweetly, “your head is the gift that keeps on giving.”

“I could push you off your horse, right now, and feel no remorse. Remember that, Barrie.”

“Queenie’d never let me fall, would ya, girl?” Tyson asks, patting at her cream-and-chocolate shoulder fondly. Queenie whinnies and snorts, which Tyson takes as enthusiastic agreement from his best girl. “See?” he says to Gabe triumphantly.

Gabe shakes his head, but Tyson knows he’s still smiling that easy just-for-Tyson smile. Tyson bites back his own smile to keep on whistling. Gabe lets him go on whistlin’ this time, but Tyson can feel his curiosity building.

“It’s a poem,” Tyson says, generously, like he’s bestowing some great gift of knowledge to Gabe, “by a doctor out of Kansas. All the good Range songs seem to come from some lonely soul out of Kansas, y’ever notice that? Like Kansas is so dull that they gotta justify living there to themselves.”

With a roll of his eyes, Gabe says, “Everything comes back to food or hating Kansas with you.”

“Don’t forget Texas. I hate Texas more ‘n I hate Kansas. Kansas is dull but Texas is hell. Anyway,” Tyson continues, waving off any more of Gabe’s comments, “if I remember correctly it’s called ‘My Western Home,’ and it goes something like this.”

Gabe listens patiently as Tyson stumbles his way through the lyrics. As Tyson trails off awkwardly on the last syllable, Gabe hums the tune back to him and makes a considering noise.

“Is that what you want?” Gabe asks at last. “A home on the Range?”

Tyson’s got a retort for that sitting at the tip of his tongue, but he pauses. Gabe is looking at him real earnest-like, like Tyson’s answer to this one question might be the answer to many other questions. Like it’s mighty important. Tyson wants to make sure he gives Gabe, if not the right answer, then the honest answer.

“When I first came down to the Range, all I could think of was gettin’ away, findin’ somewhere to be myself,” Tyson says, and it don’t hurt as much as it would have a year ago, a month ago, a week ago. “I think,” he says slowly, “I think once I can be myself, once I can stop gettin’ away, then I can settle down. So yeah, it’d be mighty nice to settle down in a home on the Range.”

“‘Where seldom is heard a discouraging word,’” Gabe says, voice lilting. When Tyson turns to look at him, he looks awfully sad. Too sad to just be about a silly song some Kansan wrote to make themself feel better about living in a boring state. Gabe had a mighty fine face, but it hurt something deep in Tyson to see him look sad.

“‘And the skies are not clouded all day!’” Tyson sings back, pitching his voice so it cracks in the middle. He throws his arms wide and near enough unhorses himself. He feels the fool but it does the trick: Gabe snorts and laughs at him, the sadness melting away from his face like frost in the sunshine, like it was never there.

The somber mood dissipates, vanishing into the midafternoon sun, and they fall into safer, simpler topics of conversation, like wondering how Mack is getting on, training with his friend up in Montana. Word on the Range is that the fella is the best trapper and tracker in North America, but Tyson ain’t too sure that’s the only thing Mack learns from him. Gabe declines to give his opinion on the matter, but Tyson’d bet Mack’s horse all over again that Gabe lives for Range gossip like this.

The hills and miles pass real smooth, and the cooler air invigorates their whole party. The horses are in good spirits, tossing their heads and whinnying, and towards the late afternoon, Gabe turns to Tyson with a smile and a hint of mischief in his sky blue eyes.

“How about it, Tys,” he says, giving Benny some rein as the normally placid horse dances along the trail, “want to race?”

Tyson laughs and ruffles Queenie’s mane. “We can take ‘em, cain’t we girl?”

“On my mark,” Gabe says, and kicks Benny into a gallop. Tyson lets loose a wordless shout of outrage and kicks Queenie into a gallop as well, crouching low over her neck as she whinnies and eats up the distance between her and Benny.

“You’re a yellow-bellied, rotten cheat, Landeskog!” Tyson calls over the rush of the wind in his ears.

They race across a few hills, hootin’ and hollerin’ the whole while, and Tyson falls in love with the prairie all over again.

Just as the horses start to breathe heavy and Gabe and Tyson know they ought to slow down to save them for the last stretch to Cheyenne, they come across a pond between two hills. It’s a good enough spot as any to make their last camp before Cheyenne so they dismount, leading the horses in a lazy loop around the pond to cool them down after their race.

Once the horses are seen to and set to watering and grazing along the edge of the pond, Gabe and Tyson make camp. They gather what firewood they can and set out the bedrolls. With nary a cloud in the sky, they forego the tent again. Summer’s ending fast, but the two of them’ll keep warm enough, wrapped tight in each other’s arms and sharing bedrolls.

Tyson surveys their cosy little camp, same as always with only the scenery changing, and feels an odd sense of pride and belonging. He’s quiet long enough that Gabe makes a face and throws his sweaty neckerchief at him. Tyson bats it away with a glare, mouth opening to berate his companion, but Gabe only smiles sweetly and says,

“Y’up for a swim?”

Tyson takes a gander at the pond. It don’t look too deep, and the banks are sandy ‘stead of the muddy rivers further east. There are reeds edging the pond and a small forest rings the far bank, leaves still green and not yet turning with the season. The wide Wyoming sky, blue melting into molten gold and rich purple, reflects off the sparkling water of the pond like a shimmering mirror.

“I ‘spose it looks clean enough,” Tyson says and turns his nose up. He starts to kick his boots off anyhow.

“Like you’d know what clean really is anymore, you dirty cowboy,” Gabe mocks, giving Tyson a look up and down. Tyson’s sure it’s meant to come off as mean and condescending, but it still sends a shiver up and down Tyson’s spine.

“Don’t pretend you ain’t as dirty as I am.”

Gabe winks back at him, saucy as anything, and lifts his shirts off. He stands in the golden light of the setting sun, hands on his flies, and stares at Tyson, daring him to follow. Tyson’s known since long before that card game in Abilene that he’ll always follow wherever Gabe leads.

They race to get in the pond, flinging their clothes hither and yon in their haste to get in the water first. In the dying light of the late September sun, the water is chilly. They laugh and splash at each other, wrestling and dunking. Tyson feels years younger, like he’s twelve again and playing with the other kids along their stretch of the island.

Soon enough though, hands sliding along wet skin turn sexual, and Tyson uses his handholds on Gabe’s shoulder and waist to pull him in for a kiss. Their lips are cold from the water and chapped from the sun and wind, but they warm up and smooth down as they kiss. Gabe runs a hand through Tyson’s hair, or tries to, laughing against Tyson’s lips when his fingers get caught in Tyson’s curls, tangled from their romps and living in the saddle. Tyson makes a wounded noise when Gabe pulls away and starts to climb up the sandy banks of the pond towards their camp. He goes to follow but Gabe waves him off as he searches through one of his saddle bags. Tyson eyes the wet curve of Gabe’s flank, refusing to look away when Gabe catches him even as he feels his cheeks heat.

“We’re due to get to Cheyenne tomorrow, might as well try’n make ourselves presentable,” Gabe says and splashes back into the pond. He shows Tyson what he grabbed out of the saddlebag: a hunk of the sweet smelling soap he must have nabbed from the boarding house back in Ogallala.

“You been holding out on me, Landeskog?” Tyson says and reels Gabe back in with hands at his hips.

“I’ve been savin’ it for you, darlin’,” Gabe says, pink lips stretched into a slow, easy smile.

They wade out to the deeper part of the pond, water up nearly to Tyson’s chest, and Gabe dips him back to wet his hair. He works the soap into a lather in his hair, gently detangling each curl until he can run his hands through Tyson’s hair in smooth strokes. He dips Tyson one last time to get the soap out of his hair. Eyelids heavy, Tyson turns around in Gabe’s arms, reaching for the soap.

“Your turn.”

Even when dark from the water, in the last rays of the sun Gabe’s hair still shines like the gold that brought Tyson’s granddaddy west all those years ago. As Tyson runs the soap through the fine gold strands, he can’t help but think that he’s finally struck it rich.

They split the rest of the soap between them, soaping each other up and wiping the grime of six days’ rides away.

Eventually the soap suds drift away in the water, and they’re just aimlessly trailing their hands over each other’s bodies. Tyson cain’t quite wrap his head ‘round this, that he can just touch Gabe like this. That he can trail his hands up and down the muscles of Gabe’s arms and back, that he can grip at Gabe’s waist and dig his fingers into Gabe’s thighs. That he can lean in and taste the salt of Gabe’s skin.

That Gabe welcomes it.

That Gabe touches him back, and more.

As the last rays of the sun kiss the edges of the trees and the first stars come out, Tyson pulls back from Gabe, teeth chattering.

“You a little chilled there?” Gabe laughs, rubbing his hands up and down Tyson’s arms.

“Like you ain’t cold too,” Tyson scoffs and a shiver racks Gabe’s frame, proving Tyson’s point nicely.

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Least I’m still warm where it counts.” Gabe presses his naked hips into Tyson’s, trails his fingertips along the top of Tyson’s ass, and Tyson gasps.

“Oh my _god_. Oh my god, no, we ain’t doin’ this in a pond in some forgotten corner of Wyoming.” He pushes a laughing Gabe back up the bank of the pond, letting his hands drift just south enough to get his own handful. They make it to the campsite and Tyson shakes out his hair like a cattle dog after a swim. Gabe shoves him away from the bedrolls, even though he’s just as dripping wet.

As Gabe pulls up his trousers—hopping on one foot, looking ridiculous and still like the best thing Tyson’s ever seen—Tyson grabs his elbow and kisses him again. They laugh against each other’s lips and Gabe’s hands find Tyson’s skin again, gripping at his waist. Tyson shivers, and this time it ain’t because of the cool fall air. Gabe abandons his previous task, and Tyson hums contentedly as the trousers drop back to the ground with a soft rustle.

Unlike the night before, Gabe don’t spend much time messin’ around: he gets Tyson pressed down on the nearest bed roll and sets to sucking a dark mark on the inside of Tyson’s thigh. It’s gonna smart on the ride to Cheyenne, but if Tyson plays his cards right, a tiny ol’ bruise won’t be the only thing troubling him in the saddle.

Gabe drags his lips higher and higher up Tyson’s one thigh and then the other, lickin’ and suckin’ as he goes ‘til Tyson’s whining at him to quit teasing.

“I ain’t teasin’ ya,” Gabe says, pulling back and rubbing circles on Tyson’s hip bones with his thumbs. “I’m being a perfect gentleman. Kind, considerate, and courteous, just like I learned at that fancy school of mine you like to make fun of me for.”

Tyson rolls his eyes with such force it feels like they might roll right on out of his head. He reaches down and threads his fingers through Gabe’s golden hair, guiding him ‘til he’s got Gabe’s mouth right he wants it. Gabe snorts but don’t complain, instead getting straight to it and sucking the head into his mouth. An embarrassing whine spills out of Tyson’s mouth, but there ain’t no one around to hear them but the horses, so Tyson don’t bother to hold back.

The wet heat of Gabe’s mouth and the slickness of his tongue gets Tyson worked up mighty quick, and Gabe has to press his hips down into the bedroll to keep him from bucking. Soon, sooner ‘n he’d like to admit, Tyson can feel his gut tightening in anticipation. He ain’t ready for release, not yet, not quite like this, so he flails out behind him towards his saddlebag.

Tyson fumbles at his saddlebag with one hand, the other gripping at Gabe’s hair. He’s almost got ahold of what he’s looking for when Gabe does _something_ with his tongue and Tyson damn near passes out.

“Christ almighty, Gabriel, did you learn _that_ at your fancy Denver finishing school?” Tyson gasps, breathless and shivery. Gabe merely flicks a pleased look up at Tyson, winks, and gets back down to business.

Only by the grace of God is Tyson able to find the small tin near the bottom of the bag. He presses it into Gabe’s hand, the one that’s been gripping at Tyson’s thigh. Gabe pulls off to give a curious look at the tin. Tyson whines at the loss.

“What’s this?”

“Whadaya think it is? Oil, of course,” Tyson says and feels his cheeks flush even redder. He shifts his legs some so that he’s splayed a little wider. The position makes him feel more vulnerable ‘n he’d like, but the wide-eyed, hungry way Gabe looks down at him makes any embarrassment in his gut fizzle out. It’s replaced by a burning heat real fast.

Gabe opens the tin of oil and dips his fingers in it. “So you want me to…” his voice trails off almost shyly as his fingers slip along the crease of Tyson’s thigh, skirting just around where Tyson needs them most. The slick shines wetly on Tyson’s skin and he shivers against the sudden coolness.

“Yeah,” Tyson sighs, staring in awe at the sight in front of him: Gabe kneeling between his spread legs, blond hair mussed in the starlight, cheeks flushed and mouth parted as he stares down at Tyson’s bare body. His forehead wrinkles in concentration but his fingers still don’t dip any lower. Tyson pushes up onto one elbow and runs a hand through Gabe’s hair. “Y’ever done this before?”

Gabe’s eyes dart up to Tyson’s, caught out, but he don’t say nothing, the stubborn jackass.

Tyson kicks at him and wiggles into Gabe’s hold on his hips.

“Don’t sweat it, greenhorn,” he says sweetly. “I’m sure you’ll be perfect at this, just like how you’re perfect at damn near everything you try. Just follow my lead.”

“You’re such a pain in my ass. Cain’t believe I even…” Gabe grumbles, not bothering to finish his sentence, and Tyson kicks at him again.

“I want you to be a pain in _my_ ass, so giddy-up.”

“Oh my _god_.”

For all his complaining, Gabe follows directions like a dream. He dips into the tin of oil again, rubbing his fingers to warm up the slick. He trails his fingers down slowly and, at Tyson’s encouraging nod and less encouraging insult, carefully presses one in.

Tyson breathes through it and wills his body to relax around the sudden intrusion. It don’t hurt, but it don’t yet feel good, not like Tyson knows it can.

Gabe sets to gently thrusting his finger in and out of Tyson. It's gentle and soft and, aside from the fact that it's _Gabriel Landeskog_ who’s got a finger in him, it ain’t the most exciting experience Tyson's ever had.

Tyson reaches out to flick at Gabe's forehead. “Hey Landy,” he says. “You ain't gotta be so soft with me. This ain't my first rodeo, I can take another already.”

“Ain't your first rodeo,” Gabe repeats mockingly. Tyson goes to make a face at him but his mouth goes tight as Gabe obligingly adds another slicked up finger and sets to thrusting and twisting them. “That still too soft for you?”

“Hnng,” Tyson says. For as long as it's been since the last time he'd been this intimate with a partner, his body quickly becomes accustomed to the stretch and rhythm and Tyson finds himself chasing the feeling. Gabe's eyes, when Tyson can bear to look up at his face, are glassy and dark, trained on the place where his fingers disappear into Tyson’s body.

“Another,” Tyson moans and reaches down to take himself in hand. He ain’t trying to find release, not before the main event, but feels too good not to. Gabe feels too good not to. “Another,” he says again, bucking his hips when Gabe don’t immediately comply.

“Jesus, Tys, I’m gettin’ to it,” Gabe says meanly even as he pulls his fingers out as gently as ever. Before Tyson can bemoan the loss, three of Gabe’s fingers are pressing into him.

Tyson ain’t a newbie at this, not like Gabe, but Gabe’s fingers in him fill him up like no one else has before.

And then, by sheer chance, Gabe crooks his fingers up just right and— 

“ _Gabe_!” Tyson wails, arching up off the bedroll as pleasure sparks along his spine like lightning.

“Tyson, oh my god, did I hurt you?” Gabe asks, frantic and wide eyed. He goes to pull his fingers out and Tyson bears down, bringing up his knees to frame Gabe's big body.

“Don't you dare stop, Gabriel Landeskog, or I swear I’ll kill you and leave your body for the prairie dogs.”

Gabe huffs a disbelieving laugh but keeps thrusting and crooking his fingers 'til Tyson's a squirming, panting mess. The tightening in his gut gets to be that Tyson has to grip the base of his dick to keep from finding his release too early.

"Lookit you" Gabe says in awe as Tyson keeps on moanin' and clawin' at the bedroll.

“Less lookin’, more touchin’,” Tyson says, or at least he tries. It comes out more like a strangled groan. The look on Gabe’s face slides into something triumphant and near arrogant. It’s a good look on him.

After a particularly vicious curl of Gabe's fingers, Tyson grabs at his wrist to stop him. Just before Gabe can ask him if he's alright, again, Tyson looks up at his sweaty, flushed face and says, “Gabe, I need you in me.”

Gabe's eyes flicker down to his hand, still trapped in Tyson's grasp, and Tyson rolls his eyes.

“Not your fingers, I need _you_ in me.” Tyson releases Gabe's wrist, and leans forward to take Gabe in hand. He's blood-hot in the cool September night and wet at the tip. Tyson's body sings at the thought of taking Gabe into him.

Even in the darkness Tyson can see the whites of Gabe's eyes as he stares back at him. “You sure you're—”

“Gabe if you ask me if I'm ready one more time, I will finish the job my own damn self. Use the oil again, and go real slow.” Tyson starts to heave himself up, ready to turn over and present himself to Gabe, but Gabe's hand darts out to press him back into the bedroll. 

“Wait,” he says, urgent. “Can you...like this? I'd like to see your face.”

Tyson can feel his mouth slip into an easy smile as his heart starts thudding like cattle stampeding. “It's dark out, you cain't see much of my face by starlight,” he teases, leaning back anyway and smiling as Gabe follows him down, wrapping his legs around Gabe’s waist, pressing kisses to his mouth. “And here you were callin’ me soft.”

“Maybe we're both soft.”

Tyson rolls his hips into Gabe's. “That don't feel soft to me.” Gabe groans and thumps his head down onto Tyson’s shoulder, and Tyson cain’t help but laugh at his own joke. He suddenly chokes mid-laugh as Gabe reaches down to fit himself against Tyson. “Yeah,” Tyson sighs, answering the question in Gabe's eyes, “ _please_.”

Slowly, slower than a snowbank melting, slower than wheat ripening, Gabe pushes in. Without thinking on it, Tyson’s hands come up to frame Gabe's face, pulling him into a kiss that ain't much more than them breathing heavily into each other's mouths. The stretch of Gabe inside him is both unbearable and addictive, and Tyson cain't breathe, cain't see, cain't think anything other ‘n Gabe, Gabe, _Gabe_.

“God _damn_ , Tys,” Gabe gasps out once his hips are pressed flush to Tyson’s backside. His lips slide down the side of Tyson’s face, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his jaw. “Darlin’. You’re so tight.”

Tyson feels like he’s caught up in a riptide, seconds away from going under. Like if Gabe don’t move soon, Tyson’ll fall apart and be blown away into the Wyoming wind. He kicks at the back of Gabe’s thigh and whispers in a rough voice, “ _Move_ , jackass.”

“You’re so goddamned bossy,” Gabe says, but does just what Tyson tells him to.

It don’t take them long to find their release in each other. All it takes is Gabe’s hips jackrabbiting in, and a few clumsy but quick strokes from Gabe's hand and Tyson is gone, wailing Gabe's name in the empty prairie night. Gabe follows not long after, groaning as his body shudders over Tyson and goes still.

The night is alive with the sweet sound of crickets and a lone poorwill as they lay tangled together, catching their breath. At last Gabe gently pulls out, kissing Tyson slowly through the discomfort. He grabs a discarded neckerchief to swipe at them before rearranging Tyson in his arms, tucked into their bedroll.

They lay there, facing each other, sated and tired and happy. Silver starlight highlights the arch of Gabe’s cheekbone and the tip of his nose. Tyson follows the path of starlight along the shell of Gabe’s ear with his fingertip, laughing when Gabe scrunches up his nose. Gabe leans in and they kiss, slow and syrupy like molasses on a winter morning.

Just as Tyson’s lips start to feel bruised and numb, Gabe pulls back to whisper, like he’s telling a secret, “You remember that cow you birthed, back on my family’s ranch?”

Tyson can feel his cheeks turn redder ‘n Arizona dirt and he mumbles, “Don’t think I could ever forget the time I knew a cow near-Biblically.”

“It built character. O’Byrne was very proud, even if you did look a hair away from fainting.” Gabe laughs as Tyson shoves him near out of the bedroll. He catches Tyson’s wrists in his hands and pins them down between their bodies. “No, but you do remember that calf, right? The little red and white one, he’d follow you sun up to sun down when you’d let him. You were soft for him.”

“Oh, we’re back on being soft again,” Tyson scoffs even as he curls right back into Gabe’s warmth. “Leave off, Gabe, he was my first calving. ‘Course I was soft for him. He was sweet.”

“You both were. Like I said, Tys, you’re softer ‘n my horse’s mouth.”

“I’ll show you a soft mouth,” Tyson grumbles, but makes no move to follow through. He’s tired and sore, and not particularly looking forward to the the following day’s ride to Cheyenne.

Tyson goes all tense when he thinks what else tomorrow means: the beginning of the rodeo but the end of their ride. By cowboy rules, the rules Factor taught him on that first cattle drive, this...this thing that he and Gabe got going on has to end soon. Maybe they can stretch it out through the rodeo, but after that, they’ll have to go their separate ways. Gabe’ll eventually have to go back to the Landeskog ranch, take up the family horse breeding business. Marry a pretty girl from back East, with connections and an education. A girl he could talk poetry to, someone who’ll know his Whitman quotations.

And Tyson...Tyson’ll go back to eking out a living on the Range, taking odd jobs where he can find them and partnering up with other lonely cowboys on the drives.

It ain’t a happy thought to go to sleep on, but Tyson is warm, and tired, and wrapped up in the arms of a man who he’d follow across the Range and back. He cain’t help but fall asleep.

* * *

Cheyenne, Wyoming, is loud, louder ‘n any town Tyson’s seen in a year or more. The air is thick with all sorts of sounds: train whistles blowing, horses neighing, cattle lowing, donkeys braying, and above it all, men and women, children and old folk, whooping and hollering at each other. There’s even an honest to God welcoming committee shaking each and every person’s hand, soon as they step off the trains.

This is the busiest he’s ever seen the town. The storefronts along Capitol Avenue have red, white, and blue streamers and bunting strung up along their porches, all fluttering in the breeze like kite tails. Already they’ve passed groups of cowboys and vaqueros in tent camps on their way into town, and the roads are thick with locals and visitors alike. Between the horses and cattle, carriages and people on foot, there’s hardly any room for Gabe and Tyson to ride side by side.

As much as they like to make fun of Cheyenne, now at the height of the big round-up, it’s almost impressive.

“You think we’ll be able to find a room anywhere in this town?” Tyson asks, tugging at Queenie’s reins to get her to sidestep a stopped buggy. She reaches out to nudge at the other horse, the little shit-stirrer, and Tyson has to rein her in.

“‘Course we will,” Gabe throws over his shoulder. “It may be hosting the Daddy of All Round-Ups, but it’s still _Cheyenne_. ‘Sides, I know a place not too far from here.”

The crowds thin out some as they head north on Capitol Avenue, away from the depot, but the verandas of the stores and public houses are still mighty full. Gabe leads them right up to one of the bigger boarding houses in town, a three story affair with the gaudiest bunting yet on its balconies. As Gabe dismounts Benny and hitches him to the post right outside the building, Tyson cain’t help but notice that the folks lounging on the veranda and balconies ain’t dusty cowboys like the two of them: the men wear neatly pressed suits and the ladies are decked out in their Sunday finest. All of them look clean and well-fed, like they haven’t ever gone longer ‘n a few days without a bath in their whole life. Even the other horses hitched to the post in front of the building look cleaner ‘n Tyson feels.

“You comin’ in, Tys?”

Tyson blinks and looks down at Gabe, who’s staring up at him with a half-smile on his face. It ain’t that slow, easy smile he usually gives Tyson, and Tyson is all too aware of how out of place he suddenly feels in the middle of Cheyenne. The sudden presence of _people_ rather ‘n just hills and grass and pronghorns throws him for a loop.

“They got hot dinner in this fancy place of yours?” Tyson asks, earning him an eyeroll from under Gabe’s hat. Nudging Queenie up closer to the hitching post, Tyson swings a leg over her and hops down from the saddle, wincing as he lands.

Tyson wouldn’t trade the night before for nothing, but he could’a done without the hours in the saddle afterward.

Once he’s got Queenie hitched to the post, he follows Gabe into the boarding house.

Soon as he walks through the door, Tyson feels as welcome as a rattlesnake at a square dance. The lobby of the boarding house is well-lit, nearly as bright as the early afternoon streets outside. A gentle hum fills the air, it takes Tyson a moment to realize that it’s coming from the electric lights in the wall. Plush velvet chairs line a sitting area where a handful of slick old men are sitting, reading newspapers and puffing at cigars.

Tyson feels a jolt when he realizes Gabe hasn’t led them into one of the many boarding houses of Cheyenne.

He’s led them into a real life hotel.

Gabe’s leaning against the counter, flirtin’ away with the young woman behind it when Tyson comes to stand by him. He’s got his hat off, dusty blond hair falling across his forehead as he looks up at the girl.

“I always did think Cheyenne girls were the sweetest girls in the west,” Gabe’s sayin’, layin’ it on real thick as he leans in. The gal don’t look too impressed by him, even though Tyson does see her eyes lingering on the breadth of his shoulders. Tyson cain’t blame her: they’re mighty fine shoulders.

“And I always thought that cowboys were particularly dense,” the gal says. Her eyes flicker over to Tyson and a frown tugs at her lips. “I already told you, we don’t have any rooms available.”

“Darlin’,” Gabe says, real sweet, and slides a coin across the counter, “Cain’t you check again?”

“Sir,” the gal says, pursing her lips and sliding the coin back into Gabe’s hand. “We don’t have any vacancies. We are full up for the festival tomorrow.”

“If you could just—”

“Is your family tree a shrub or did days under the sun without a hat make you this stupid?”

“Hey now,” Gabe says, straightening. He presses a hand to his heart and pouts at the girl. She’s made of stronger stuff, Tyson thinks, to not give into Gabe. “That’s mighty hurtful, ma’am. I don’t think anyone’s ever accused the Landeskogs of being a family of sapheads before.”

All of a sudden the girl stands up straight, eyes gone wide and cheeks gone flushed. “Oh,” she says. “Oh!” She starts flipping through the room register real quick and smiles up at Gabe, fluttering her eyelashes. “Oh how silly of me, I didn’t even see this room. Yes sir, Mr. Landeskog, my apologies, there is a room available. Two beds, of course, for you and your friend.”

Gabe looks back at Tyson and bites his lip before saying, “Yes, thank you kindly.”

Tyson’s stomach drops and he looks down at the wood floors of the lobby. They’re clean, and well swept. Proper. He feels dusty and dry and like his heart might break if he thinks about Gabe agreeing to two beds so quickly.

The gal hands over the key to the room and tells them that they’re more ‘n welcome to use the hotel’s private stables to quarter their horses. They’re quiet as they lead the horses ‘round the back. Gabe keeps shooting curious looks Tyson’s way, so Tyson does what he’s always been best at and pushes his feelings back down.

“So what was that about?” Tyson finally asks as he untacks Queenie in her rented stall.

“What was what about?” Gabe hollers over from Benny’s.

“You know,” Tyson says, and pitches his voice high and sweet like the gal in the lobby. “Oh of _course_ we have a bed for you, Mr. Landeskog. In fact you can take _my_ bed. I’ll keep it _extra_ warm for you, Mr. Landeskog!”

Gabe comes around the stall and leans against the door. He’s smiling like he ain’t sure if he should be laughing or not. “It ain’t like that.”

Tyson snorts and turns back to Queenie’s tack. “Ain’t it?”

“It ain’t,” Gabe says, suddenly right behind Tyson, wrapping his arms ‘round Tyson’s waist and pressing a quick kiss to the space behind his ear. Tyson cain’t help but sigh and melt into his arms, just a little. “My family’s just got friends up in Cheyenne, is all.”

“Must be mighty fancy friends if they can help you score a room in an establishment like this” Tyson comments, peering over his shoulder just in time to see Gabe’s face go tight.

Quick as a flash that peculiar look is gone and Gabe gives him a lazy smirk. “Not particularly. Just a couple of political types from out of Denver. They ain’t cowboys, that’s for sure.” Gabe kisses him again before Tyson can ask anymore questions, this time on the jaw, and draws away. “Come on. Let’s get our stuff to the room and we’ll see about gettin’ you fed. You get real ornery when you’re hungry, Tys.”

Tyson turns to swat at him as he follows him out of the stables.

* * *

Gabe sweet talks them into two bowls of stew and a copy of the _Cheyenne Daily Sun-Leader_ , and they sit out on the veranda to eat and soak in the September sunlight. They trade turns reading the articles out loud to each other, real dramatic-like. Tyson starts pantomiming a fistfight as he reads out, “Brothers quarrel: Charles and Al Rogers have an altercation,” and Gabe comes mighty close to chokin’ on his stew and his laughter.

A couple of the other fine gentlemen in the chairs nearby send them dirty glares, but Tyson and Gabe don’t care one whit.

Gabe touches him a few times, draping an arm over his shoulders or trailing fingers down the outside of his thigh, but Tyson shrugs it off, eyes darting around. Touches like that were fine in Ogallala, a town that was more cows ’n people. The townies, the farmers, the cowboys passing through, they knew what life on the Range was like, that arrangements like theirs were temporary in the face of loneliness. But Cheyenne had honest-to-God mansions lining some of its main streets, filled with the families of investors back east. They don’t understand, they couldn’t understand, what was happenin’ between them. Had happened between them.

It suddenly occurs to Tyson that all this touchin’ out in public, it’s like a campfire given off sparks in a dry prairie. Tyson needs to bank that fire before it starts a wildfire. The longer he waits to snuff out the fire, the harder it’ll be to control and the more dangerous it becomes.

Tyson turns back to the paper, his mind muddled and ill at ease.

The last page of the paper is clear of articles and gossip, and has only one massive advertisement for the festival the next day. Tyson scans through the events and frowns.

“Landy,” he says, taking a second look at the paper, “I thought you said there’d be steer ropin’.”

“I did.”

“This ain’t nothin’ but pony races.”

“Give me that,” Gabe says and snatces the paper right out of Tyson’s hands. Tyson sits back and frowns at him while he scans the advertisement, scratching at his beard. “There, see,” he says, pointing at the last event on the list. “Ropin’ contest.”

“Yeah, just one of them, and nearly a dozen pony races.” Tyson can feel his cheeks flushing as some emotion tightens up his chest and throat and he bites out, “I cain’t believe you dragged me across hundreds of miles for nothing but some goddamn pony races.”

“Dragged you?” Gabe repeats, thunder in his voice and crackles of lightning in his eyes. “ _Dragged_ you? I asked you to come! You didn’t have to, but you did anyway. You chose to tag along! Ain’t no one but yourself made you saddle up with me.!”

And Tyson knows, he _knows_ , that he ain’t really mad about the ropin’ or the rodeo or the goddamn pony races. He knows that he’s scared, _so_ scared, of losing Gabe, of Gabe walking out on him, of Gabe thanking him for sharing a bed roll, shaking his hand, and leaving. He ain’t ready to give up what they have, but if Tyson leaves first, that’ll hurt less.

He knows that’s a bald faced lie, but it’s all he’s got.

“Save your breath, Landeskog,” Tyson spits, throwing himself out of his chair and storming down the veranda stairs. He picks a direction and starts walking, hands jammed in his trouser pockets.

“Where are you goin’?” Gabe yells after him. Tyson don’t even turn back to look at him when he yells back,

“Don’t forget to sign up for your goddamn pony races, Gabriel!”

Gabe don’t yell anything back. Doesn’t even follow him. Tyson pretends like that’s what he wants.

Tyson wanders around the dusty streets of Cheyenne for ages, kicking at loose stones and tilting his hat against the last rays of the dying sun. The buildings and streamers and bunting look almost gold-plated in the final moments of sunshine before twilight, and the reflection of all that sun off the storefront windows makes Tyson’s eyes water. He’s sad, and embarrassed, and angry, mostly at himself.

He wishes Mack wasn’t up in Montana with his trapper buddy. If Mack’d been with him the whole summer, Tyson wouldn’t have agreed to go on a trip with Gabe. He wouldn’t have been alone with Gabe for weeks. He wouldn’t have shared his bedroll and seen him first thing in the morning, soft and sleepy and smiling.

He wouldn’t have held him.

He wouldn’t have kissed him.

Tyson frowns down at his dusty boots and rubs at his face. Goddamnit. As much as hates himself for giving in and mucking things up with Gabe, he don’t regret kissing him. He don’t regret none of the things he and Gabe did.

Not really.

He wallows in his own misery long enough for the sun to set behind the lowest buildings, long enough for the golden glare off the windows to subside. At a loss for what to do next, Tyson looks up at the building in front of him. It’s a massive brick structure, bigger ‘n anything Victoria or even Greeley has to offer, with more chimneys and arched windows and finery ‘n Tyson knows what to do with. He takes in the grand bay window on the second floor just above the merry sign reading “Tivoli.” There’s a sign posted to the front door, proclaiming in big bold typeset, “Frontier Day This September 23rd. Wild Broncho Riding, Roping, Throwing and Other Cowboy Feats, Pony Races, Pioneer Sports, Etc. Prove Your Worth as a Cowboy.” _Participants Inquire Inside_ , it reads at the very bottom.

Tyson takes a good hard look at the sign, pursing his lips and placing his hands on his hips. He thinks about what brought him here, to Cheyenne, to the Range. He thinks about where he might go next. He thinks about what it really means, to be a cowboy.

He very carefully avoids thinking about Gabe.

“Well shee-yit,” Tyson says, and heads on into the building.

He hands over his five cents to the Frontier Committee and signs up for the steer roping contest.

* * *

The hotel room’s dark when Tyson creeps back in. Pale light from the sliver of a moon in the sky spills in through the window, turning the shadows watery and gently draping the beds and chest of drawers with faint silver.

When Tyson sneaks a glance at the bed closest to the door, he can see a dark lump, tucked in under the blankets. Gabe looks cozy and warm, and Tyson aches when he thinks of sleeping by himself for the first time in weeks.

He means to tiptoe to the bed by the window, grab a few hours of shuteye, then slip out to the fairgrounds afore Gabe wakes up, but of course he goddamn ruins that plan immediately by slamming his shin into the bed frame.

Between his cursing and hopping and stomping, Tyson ain’t all that surprised when the other bed starts to squeak and rustle, Gabe turning over to blink sleepily at him through the faint moonlight.

“Tyson?” Grabe grumbles, more ‘n half asleep, voice thick. “That you?”

“Yeah, it’s just me,” Tyson whispers back. He rubs at his shin. He’s too embarrassed to remember he’s supposed to be mad at Gabe.

“Come to bed.”

It ain’t a request. Tyson wavers on his feet, eyes darting between Gabe and the empty bed by the window. To slide into bed with Gabe now, even just to sleep, would be like fanning the flames of the fire he’s supposed to be smothering.

But Tyson is weak, and goddamn, a warm sleepy Gabe sure is a mighty appealing sight.

“It’s a mighty small bed, Gabriel.” Tyson sets to kicking his boots off and shimmying out of his trousers.

Gabe just scoots over and lifts the blankets up in invitation. “We’ll make it work,” he says, oddly earnest for someone who ain’t completely awake.

Tyson gives in, crawling under the quilts and into Gabe’s waiting arms. Gabe hums contentedly, like a barn cat curling up for a nap in a patch of sunlight. He presses a single kiss to Tyson’s forehead, and then his breathing turns deep and steady once more. Tyson squeezes his eyes shut and curls in closer against Gabe’s body.

“One last time,” Tyson mumbles to himself, and falls asleep.

* * *

September 23rd dawns bright and clear and _loud_. A big brass band sets up shop right outside the train depot, playing songs all through the morning as train after train after train unload visitors up from Denver or down from LaGrange. As crowded as Tyson thought Cheyenne was the day they got in, it ain’t nothin’ compared to the herds of people bustling along the streets and spilling out of shops, restaurants, and saloons.

At high noon, the air is ripped asunder by all the cannons, church bells, pistols, shotguns, and other noisemakers the town of Cheyenne can fit into its dusty streets. All the cowboys and townies, Cheyennites and visitors, whoop and holler, throwing their hats and fans in the air, before heading en masse to the fairgrounds. The size of the crowd shakes the earth, dust kicking up like it does when a herd of thirsty cattle stampedes the first creek after miles of following a dry Trail.

Tyson and Gabe watch from astride their horses, half in awe, as windy hills and plains come alive with the Frontier Day festival.

* * *

Tyson ducks out of Pioneer Park long before the festivities’re truly over. Ropin’ might’ve been the last official event, but the fairgrounds’re still bustling with people shoutin’ and celebrating long afterward. But Tyson ain’t too interested in joining in with the other partiers. He’s done what he set out to do: he came to Cheyenne, he roped his steer, and he ain’t got nothin’ to show for it. Not even a lousy third place.

If that ain’t a sign that Tyson needs to cut and run, he don’t know what is.

The ride back to the hotel is quiet and somber. Even Queenie seems to know something’s amiss: she don’t dance and pull at her reins like she usually does after a ropin’, and instead plods along the beaten-down trail. Tyson pats at her neck and checks to make sure Gabe ain’t following him. He ought to say goodbye, and he knows it, but he’d just as soon rip his own heart from his chest.

Tyson don’t bother stabling Queenie, just hitches her to the post outside the hotel since he knows it won’t take long to grab his things and then get the hell out of Dodge.

He’s halfway through packin’ up his saddlebags, thinking to himself that he’s done it, he’s in the clear, when the door swings open. Gabe swaggers in, cheeks sun-pink and hair windswept, looking golden and beautiful. He jingles with every step he takes, trouser pockets swollen with the second place winnings of the pitching and bucking event, and his ocean blue eyes go warm and sweet when he looks at Tyson.

Goddamnit, Tyson thinks helplessly.

Gabe swings an arm ‘round Tyson’s waist and sidles on up to him, pressing his nose to the soft spot behind Tyson’s ear. It takes all of Tyson’s willpower and then some not to sway back into that embrace, instead standing rigid. Gabe makes a confused noise and suddenly seems to take notice of the half-packed saddlebag. 

“We packin’ up already?”

“I am,” Tyson says, cool as he can. It ain’t that cool. He steps out of Gabe’s hold to grab a discarded shirt from off the bureau that might not even be his. “You don’t have to if you want to hang around Cheyenne a few more days.”

Gabe immediately opens his mouth, likely to make a smart comment about nobody in their right mind wanting to hang around Cheyenne longer’n they gotta, if Tyson knows anything about him. Then he pauses and looks around the room, blue eyes darting around before finally landing on Tyson’s face and narrowing.

“Wait,” he says, and swallows. “Were you planning on leaving without me?”

“Yeah,” Tyson says. He’s halfway to telling some bullshit lie about meeting up with Mack in Montana when Gabe asks, heart-wrenchingly eager,

“Well, where are you heading now? Maybe I can tag along—”

“I think maybe it’ll be better if we split up here.”

The room goes silent and cold. Tyson could’a dropped a pin and the sound of it hittin’ the floor would’a been louder than a gunshot.

He can’t meet Gabe’s eyes, but Tyson’s eyes do dart up to take in Gabe’s face when he makes a hurt noise. He looks devastated.

“Split up? But I thought we…” Gabe don’t finish the sentence. Tyson turns back to the saddlebag. He folds and refolds the same shirt. He ain’t got that much stuff. Finally Gabe says, “Are you askin’ me to quit you?”

Something in Tyson’s chest breaks, like it did on the train out of Victoria years ago. “We gotta quit each other. This...what we got, it ain’t ever supposed to last long. That’s all.”

Quick as lightning, all the hurt in Gabe turns to anger and he sets to pacing the floor, red-faced with his hackles up. “Where the hell did you get that idea? Was it one of those cowboys out of Texas? I’ll rope ‘em and leave ‘em on the Union Pacific tracks for making you think that. Or is it that you really feel like you cain’t stand to be with me any longer? If you don’t _like_ me anymore, you can tell me. We can go our own ways, just...just tell it to me straight instead of hiding behind an excuse!” Gabe turns a wild-eyed look to Tyson, and Tyson don’t think before he throws his hands up and shouts,

“‘Course I still like you, I goddamn love you!”

Gabe jolts to a stop right in his tracks and sucks in a breath. “Then why,” he says, real slow, real quiet, “are you trying to leave me?”

“Because, two men together, outside of a drive, it ain’t done.”

“Who gives a shit if others ain’t done it? We can do it. We can take jobs together, go on drives together. Shit, Tys, we could save up, buy a head of cattle and start up a ranch ourselves outside Greeley if’n we wanted.” Gabe looks at him beseechingly, young and naive and _stupid_ , and Tyson cain’t take it anymore.

“You ain’t listening to me,” Tyson yells, pulling away from Gabe’s reaching arms. He curls into himself, twisting the wrinkled shirt in his hands. “It just ain’t done,” he says again. “It ain’t done here, it ain’t done in Greeley, and it sure as hell ain’t done in Victoria. I know,” he says, when Gabe opens mouth to argue, “because I’ve tried.” 

Gabe don’t have anything to say to that and Tyson tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling of the room, blinking against the prickle in his eyes. He focuses in on the crown molding edging the room, fancier ‘n anywhere else he’s ever stayed.

“I wasn’t lyin’,” Tyson starts, “when I said that the Range was open enough for me. It’s plenty open. But it ain't so much a place as it is a break from the rest of the world. Like kids playing make believe under a tent made of quilts. When you're on the Range, you can do what you want and, and be who you want. Out on the Range, on the Trail and on drives, you can be a star roper, or a cowboy hero, or a man who loves other men, and ain't no one can tell you otherwise. Ain’t no one can tell you you’re wrong. And sometimes, the other cowboys, they’ll play along. They’ll hold you, and kiss you, and tell you you’re the best they’ve ever had.”

Tyson takes a shuddering breath. “And then the drive ends at one of the depot towns and that warm, safe quilt tent comes crashing down. And always— _always,_ Gabe—I'm the only one who don't want to stop pretending the other fella loves me as much as I love him.”

It’s quiet, and Tyson wants to take all of those word back, wants to lock them up inside of him where they’re safe and secret. He cain’t bear to look at Gabe, but he’s mighty tired of staring up at the ceiling ‘til it blurs, so shuts his eyes tight and ignores the burn of a tear sliding down his cheek.

“Oh,” Gabe sighs and it feels like world is crashing down around Tyson in slow motion. “Oh, Tyson…”

“I don’t need your _pity_ , Landeskog,” Tyson growls, eyes flying open as he glares at the man in front of him.

“It ain’t pity, you goddamned jackass,” Gabe growls right back. He takes a step closer to Tyson, but Tyson don’t back down. “I’ve been trying to prove to you that I love you this whole goddamned time. Ever since Abilene. Hell, since before Abilene. Since I saw you in our barn that day six years ago with your goddamn arm up my goddamn cow!”

The anger and hurt building in Tyson stops like a tornado disappearing into a sunny day just before it hits a homestead. He blinks. “Wait,” he says, “you love me?”

“Yes,” Gabe bites out, like he’s still mad, but the blue of his eyes soften. Tyson unclenches his fists, releasing the shirt, and takes a step forward.

“Because I had my arm up your cow?”

“ _Tyson_.”

Tyson waves him off and steps closer until they’re toe to toe, swaying into each other’s space. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you let me believe I was alone in this?”

“Would you have listened? Would you have believed me?” Gabe asks. Damn if it ain’t the truth, but Tyson could care less right now as Gabe brings up one large hand to lay against Tyson’s jaw, tracing along Tyson’s lip with his thumb. Tyson huffs impatiently and reaches a hand up to pull Gabe down into a kiss that feels entirely new and different from the ones before.

Their lips press together slow and soft, like the petals on prairie flowers brushing up against each other in a gentle breeze. Tyson sinks into the kiss, body sagging like a scarecrow cut down from its post. All the things he’s been tellin’ himself for years, all the rules and all the times he’s held himself back, suddenly don’t matter. He feels cracked wide open, a little lost and adrift, but still so amazingly, unbelievably _happy_.

Tyson pushes in closer to Gabe, sighing contently as Gabe wraps an arm tightly ‘round his waist. He sighs into the kiss and a half-sob, half-laugh bubbles out of him. Gabe makes a concerned sound but Tyson grabs hold of him and won’t let go for nothing. 

“Promise y’ain’t playing pretend?”he whispers against Gabe’s mouth.

“Promise,” Gabe whispers back and seals their mouths together again with a desperate sweetness that nearly makes Tyson cry all over again.

Gabe pushes and nudges at him ‘til he sinks to the bed behind them. They kiss and touch with syrupy slowness, pullin’ at each other’s clothes til they don't know nothin' but the sweet slide of bare skin on skin and the taste of each other’s mouths.

As their erections grown more insistent, they lose some of that syrupy feeling: hands move faster and rougher, and their kisses turn sloppy. Gabe pins Tyson to the bed and takes the two of them in hand, stroking them desperately until they tip over into oblivion. They come together like waves on a beach: inevitably, naturally, like they've been doin' it since the beginning of time and nothin’ apart from God Himself could stop them.

It takes longer ‘n it ought to for Tyson to catch his breath, sides heaving and limbs boneless. He and Gabe are tangled together tip to toe on the mussed up old quilt of the bed, basking in the yellow warmth of the humming electric lights. Tyson’s fairly sure there’s a burn from Gabe’s beard on some of his tenderest parts, but that little hurt makes it feel that much more real.

Tyson gently frees one of his hands to run it through Gabe’s golden hair, tracing fingertips along the strong lines of his face. Gabe wrinkles his nose and playfully nips at the offending hand. Tyson leans in to kiss the very tip of his nose.

Gabe goes cross-eyed trying to look at him. “What are you doin’, Tys?” he asks, voice rumbling through all the places where their bodies are touching.

With a contented sigh, Tyson tucks himself in closer to Gabe, resting his head on the same pillow. They’re so close, the blue of Gabe’s eyes and the pink of his lips start to blur. “Nothin’,” Tyson hums. “Just makin’ sure you’re still real. Makin’ sure you’re still mine.”

Just when Tyson thought Gabe’s face couldn’t go any softer for him, it does: eyes crinkling and cheeks pinkening up, lips parted in an open, happy, bright smile.

“‘For every atom belonging to me as good as belongs to you,’” Gabe murmurs in that same voice he always uses when he’s tryin’ to sweet-talk Tyson with his fancy poetry. He brings up their intertwined hands and brushes a kiss across Tyson’s knuckles.

“I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Tyson says. He’s laughing and smiling and maybe crying, but only a little.

Gabe smiles that slow and easy just-for-Tyson smile and cups his face with his free hand. “That’s okay, darlin’,” Gabe says, brushing away the wetness on Tyson’s cheek with one calloused thumb. “We got all the time in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> Epilogue: They buy a tract of land out by EJ's ranch, and start a dairy and goat farm. Tyson gets attached to all of their cows and he and Gabe give them all very dumb but very sweet names, and none of the cows are ever loaded up on the stockcars to be taken out East. All of the baby cows follow Tyson around like puppies and Gabe laughs and laughs and laughs and falls even deeper in love. The end.
> 
> *
> 
> I have a whole bunch of backstory for this AU that I couldn't manage to fit in (including a Whole Thing about Gabe's family and background), so if you have any Burning Questions, or if you just want to Yell With Me, leave a comment or come yell at [my tumblr](https://dalmatienne.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic from] grow something wild and unruly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16512086) by [Talahui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talahui/pseuds/Talahui)




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